WEIGHTS 
AND  MEASURES 


WEIGHTS 
AND   MEASURES 


BY 

FRANKLIN  P.  ADAMS 

Author  of  "Tobogganing  on  Parnassus," 
"  In  Other  Words,"  "  By  and  Large" 


GARDEN  CITY   NEW  YORK 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

1919 


Copyright,  1917,  ~by 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

All  rights  reserved,  including  that  of 

translation  into  foreign  languages, 

including  the  Scandinavian 


COPYRIGHT,  1914,  1915/1916,  1917,  BY  THE  TRIBUNE  ASSOCIATION 
COPYRIGHT,  1917*,  BY  THE  REPUBLIC  PUBLISHING  CO. 


To  DULCINEA— if  you  know  whom 

I  mean — this  volume 

is  dedicated 


DON'T    YOU   DO    SOMETHING 
BIG?" 

The  Comic  Bard  is  supposed  to  sigh 
For  the  skill  and  the  power  to  make  you  cry; 
He's  supposed  to  yearn,  when  he  has  the  time, 
To  make  you  sob  as  you  read  his  rhyme. 
That  thought  in  many  a  bard  may  he; 
I  only  know  how  the  thing  strikes  me. 
For  mine  aim  is  low,  mine  amhish  atomic: 
I'm  tickled  to  death  when  they  call  me  comic. 


Vii 


CONTENTS 

PAGB 

"Why  Don't  You  Do  Something  Big?"      .  -vii 

A  Penny's  Worth  of  Poesy 3 

The  Village  Munitions  Co.,  Inc.     ...  5 

The  No-Longer-Merry  Ancient  Monarch    .  7 

To  W.  Hohenzollern:  A  Plea     ....  8 

Air:    "Captain  Jinks" -,  9 

Music;  and  the  Savage  Breast    ....  10 

The  Indignant  Captain  of  Industry    .     .  12 

The  Patriotic  Merchant  Prince    ....  14 
Song:    "  Don't  Tell  Me  What  You  Dreamt 

Last  Night" 15 

The  Seamy  Side  of  Motley    .....  17 

Summer  Night,  Riverside 21 

Voices 23 

What  They  Ask 24 

Verses  for  a  Guest  Room 25 

The  Taxi 27 

Vorticist  Poem  on  Love 28 

On  Reading  "Vorticist  Poem  on  Love"  .     .  .<  28 

The  Double  Standard ".  29 

If  the  Poets  Had  Feared  the  Advertisers  .  30 

The  Ball  Game 31 

Tipperary         36 

"Jenny  Kissed  Me" 40 

Dove  River  Anthology 47 

A  Rhymed  Review 48 

ix 


That  General  Utility  Rag 50 

Ode  to  Work 52 

Strange  Cases 

The  Case  of  Edgar  Abbott  and  Philip 

Ridd 57 

A  Consistent  Girl 59 

The  Case  of  Albert  I  rving  Williamson  .  6 1 
The  Case  of  Domineering  John  Alexis 

Upham 63 

The  Case  of  Sabrina  Simpson  Usch    .  65 

A  Parfait,  Gentil  Knight 67 

American  Themes  for  a  Gilbert   ....  69 

Lines  Written  in  a  City  Composing-Room  .  71 

Alas! 72 

Lines  Inspired  by  Trying  to  Imagine  What 
a  Magazine  Art  Editor  Ordering  a  Cover 

Tells  Mr.  Clarence  F.  Underwood    .     ,  72 

Hudson  R.iver  Anthology 73 

"Chacun  a  Son  Gout" 75 

The  Softness  of  Sybaris 77 

The  Cold  Wave  of  32  B.C 78 

To  the  Ship  of  State 79 

On  the  Indestructibility  of  Reading  Matter  80 

To    Chloe        82 

To  His  Lyre 83 

"Persicos  Odi" 84 

Playing  It  Safe 85 

As  the  New  Year  (18  B.  C.)  Dawned    .      .  87 

The  Good  Old  Days  of  27  B.  C.       .     .     .  88 

An  Invitation  to  a  Drinkfest     ....  90 

When  Q.  H.  F.  Sang  "Goodby,  Girls"  .     .  92 

On  the  Ephemeralness  of  Beauty    ...  93 

The  Bard's  Excuse 94 

x 


To  Furius,  on  Poverty 95 

Farewell  to  Cynthia 96 

The  Nuances  of  Mendacity 98 

Vers  Libre 99 

To  a  Young  Man  on  the  Platform  of  a  Sub 
way  Express 101 

Careless  Lines  on  Labour 102 

Halving  it  with  Wither 103 

Ballade  of  a  Traveller's  Jinx 104 

Underneath  the  Bough 106 

Frequently 106 

The  Flatterers 107 

To  the  Vers  Librist  Who  Uses  Only  the 

Minor  Key        107 

Eheu,  Fugaces! 108 

The  Bard's  Annual  Defiance      .     .     .     .  109 

The  Western  Journalist in 

Ballade  of  Egregiousness 114 

To  the  Returned  Girls 116 

The  Boundaries  of  Appreciation      .     .     .  118 

Efficiency 119 

Footlight  Motifs 124 

The  Italics  are  Richard  Gilford's    .     .     .  127 

To  the  Railroad  Men 129 

To  Myrtilla  of  New  York 130 

Roundel 131 

Lines  to  a  Beautiful  and  Busriding  Lady    .  132 

"Ladies,  Whose  Bright  Eyes"    ....  133 
Lines  from  a  Plutocratic  Poetaster  to   a 

Ditch-digger 134 

Villanelle,  with  Stevenson's  Assistance  .      .  136 

With  a  Copy  of  Calverley 137 

Ballade  of  Schopenhauer's  Philosophy  .     .  139 
xi 


WEIGHTS 
AND  MEASURES 


A  Penny's  Worth  .of  3 


ADY,  when  you  noted  a  deflection 

In  my — as  a  rule — attentive  gaze, 
You  articulated  mild  objection, 

Using  a  not  unfamiliar  phrase. 
Was  I  thinking  solemn  thoughts,  if  any? 

Were  my  musings  integers  or  naughts? 
Wondered  you;  and  offered  me  a  penny  i 
For  my  thoughts. 


Done  and  done!     I  get  a  gentle  joyance 

Of  a  calm  and  melancholy  kind 
When  I  learn,  in  spite  of  your  clairvoyance, 

Yours  is  not  the  power  to  read  my  mind. 
Yet,  I've  thought,  with  something  of  a  sinking 

Feeling  that  is  hard  to  put  in  rhyme, 
You  must  guess,  must  know  what  I  am  thinking 
All  the  time. 


Lady,  when  the  moon  dips  like* a  pearly 
Barge  afloat  upon  a  silver  lake; 

When  the  morn  is  manifestly  early, 
I  am  not  infrequently  awake. 

When,  as  not  infrequently,  I'm  lying 
Waiting  for  a  slumber  overslow, 

Whither,  whither  do  my  thoughts  go  flying? 
Don't  you  know? 

3 


Weights  and  Measures 

Later,  when  the  rosy  morn  appearing 

Ushers  in  the  glory  of  the  day, 
And  the  thought  of  eggs-and-bacon  nearing 

Urges  me  to  abdicate  the  hay; 
Whiles  that  I'm  apparelling  and  laving — 

Oh,  but  I  am  thoughtful  as  I  dress — 
What  would  be  my  major  thought  while  shaving? 
Can't  you  guess? 


Through  the  various  daily  occupations 
In  which  I  am  needfully  immersed, 

Which,  of  all  my  several  cerebrations, 
Always  is  the  uppermost  and  first? 

And  when  day  her  weary  course  is  ending, 
And  I  finish  what  I  term  my  task, 

Whither,  whither  do  my  thoughts  go  wending? 
Can  you  ask? 


Lady,  some  may  deem  it  far  from  proper, 
Say  it  is  with  Freudian  meaning  fraught, 

Thus  to  tell  you,  for  a  paltry  copper, 
What  is  my  predominating  thought. 

Lady,  can  you  bear  it  without  shrinking? 

Did  you  want  my  "thoughts"  the  other  night? 

I  was  thinking — I  am  always  thinking 
What  to  write. 


The  Village  Munitions  Co.,  Inc. 

FORMERLY  THE  VILLAGE  BLACKSMITH 

UNDER  a  spreading  chestnut  tree 
The  smithy  used  to  stand; 
The  smith,  a  prosperous  man  is  he 

As  any  in  the  land; 
For  many  a  shell  in  a  foreign  trench 
Now  bears  the  smithy's  brand. 


His  clothes  are  new,  and  fashioned  well; 

His  foods  are  rich  and  rare; 
His  hands  are  nicely  manicured, 

And  freshly  trimmed  his  hair. 
And  he  slaps  the  whole  world  in  the  face, 

For  he  is  a  millionaire. 


Week  in,  week  out,  from  morn  till  night, 

And  eke  from  night  till  day, 
You  can  see  his  factory  fires  aglow — 

(Three  shifts  at  double  pay). 
None  makes  more  profit  than  the  smith 

In  all  these  U.  S.  A. 


And  people  coming  home  from  work 

Look  in  at  the  open  door, 
And  say,  what  time  they  see  the  fires, 

And  hear  the  bellows  roar: 
"I  wish  I'd  bought  some  Blacksmith  Common 

When  it  was  24." 

5 


Weights  and  Measures 

Toiling— rejoicing— -profiting— 

With  pleasure  evident, 
Each  morning  sees  some  shells  begun 

For  some  belligerent. 
Something  attempted — some  one  done, 

Has  earned  two  thou.  per  cent. 


The  No-Longer-Merry  Ancient 
Monarch 

OLD  King  Cole  was  a  merry  old  soul, 
And  a  merry  old  soul  was  he, 
Till  he  called  for  his  pipe,  and  called  for  his  bowl, 
And  called  for  his  fiddlers  three. 

His  pipe,  that  cost,  in  the  days  of  old, 

But  a  dollar  seventy-four, 
Now  cost  him  twenty  dollars  in  gold 

On  account  of  the  well-known  war. 

His  bowl — and  though,  in  the  olden  time, 

When  bowls  were  cheap  and  good 
At  a  cent  apiece — now  cost  a  dime, 

On  account  of  the  dearth  of  wood. 


And  his  fiddlers  three  who  played  so  grand 

For  a  dollar  and  a  half  a  day, 
Were  known  as  The  Ukulele  Band 

In  a  midnight  cabaret. 

'Yes,  Old  King  Cole  was  a  merry  old  soul, 

And  a  m.  o.  s.  was  he, 
Till  he  called  for  his  pipe,  and  called  for  his  bowl, 

And  called  for  his  fiddlers  three. 


To  W.  Hohenzollern:    A  Plea 

TIME  was,  my  William,  when  I  had  vivacity; 
Or  ever  came  this  sanguinary  strife, 
Mine  was  a  crescent,  widening  capacity 
For  what  is  not  infrequently  called  Life. 


Time  was  when  every  afternoon  fair-weathery 
I  might  be  found,  from  spring  to  early  fall, 

Observing  hurlers  chuck  the  spheroid  leathery — 
In  brief,  I  loved  to  watch  a  game  of  ball. 


Senescent  am  I  now,  and  full  of  youthlessness; 

And  at  your  Hunnish  head  I  cast  the  blame: 
Since  you  established  schrecklichkeit,  or  ruthless- 
ness, 

I  haven't  gone  to  see  a  single  game. 


And  since  your  savage,  terrible  portentousness 
Began  to  affright  the  celebrated  world, 

I've  failed  to  feel  a  fraction  of  momentousness 
In  how  or  in  by  whom  the  pill  is  hurled. 


Sue  then  for  peace!    And  let  the  skies  be  fair 

again! 

The  Polo  Grounds*  most  ardent,  eager  tenant 
Was  I.    ...    And,  William,  how  I  yearn  to 

care  again 
About  such  things  as  who  will  win  the  pennant! 

8 


Air:  "Captain  Jinks" 

I'M  Captain  Hans  of  the  submarines, 
I  feed  the  sea  with  human  be'n's; 
I  do  not  care  about  the  means — 
I'm  in  the  German  navy! 


Music;  and  the  Savage  Breast 

I'D  read  the  Kaiser's  note, 
*     A  message  representative; 
I  went  to  bed  unquieted 

And  fuming  and  fermentative. 
Of  submarine  and  boat, 

Of  wars  in  endless  number 
I  dreamed  until,  while  far  from  ill, 

I  simply  could  not  slumber. 


Of  wars,  I  say,  I  dreamed, 
Of  contests  gladiatorial. 

When  through  the  gray  shone  out  the  day— 
The  Day  they  call  Memorial. 

And  still  I  lay  and  schemed, 
Evolving  plans  piratic 

A  hundred  million  men  to  kill 
In  diction  diplomatic. 


"Alas!"  I  thought,  "the  end 

Is  come  of  all  humanity! 
The  weeping  earth  abandons  mirth 

For  frenzy  and  insanity. 
Ah,  whither  does  it  tend?    .    .    ." 

— And  then,  in  martial  manner, 
A  German  and  adjacent  band 

Played  "The  Star  Spangled  Banner." 
10 


Music;  and  the  Savage  Breast 

O  little  German  band, 

Though  partisan  my  attitude, 
When  all  seemed  vile  you  made  me  smile — 

Accept  my  grinning  gratitude. 
You  made  me  understand, 

Where  failed  a  thousand  sermons, 
That  all  has  not  yet  gone  to  pot. 

....    I  thank  you,  band  of  Germans. 


It 


The  Indignant  Captain  of  Industry 

A   GENTLEMAN  I  chance  to  know 
•**      An  interesting  thing  of 
Is  victim  of  my  verse,  and  so 
That  thing  I  seek  to  sing  of. 
(You  surely  will  not  censure  me 
For  putting  into  poetree 
An  incident 
About  the  gent- 
Leman  I  seek  to  sing  of.) 


He  was  a  gentleman  in  trade — 

The  firm  was  Smith  &  Brother. 
They  traffick-ed  in  lace  and  braid, 
Or  some  such  thing  or  other. 
I  am  not  certain  if  they  sold 
Cigars,  or  apple  cake,  or  gold. 
Pray  let  it  stand 
At  laces,  and 
Some  such  affair  or  other. 


"Observe  a  thousand  girls  make  lace!" 

Cried  Smith,  in  exultation. 
I  saw  them  working  in  a  place 
Devoid  of  ventilation. 
They  seemed  aweary,  wan,  and  ill, 
As  merely  human  beings  will 
Appear  who  work 
In  sunless  murk 
Devoid  of  ventilation. 
12 


The  Indignant  Captain  of  Industry 

I  saw  Smith  yesterday,  again, 

Acerb,  irate,  indignant. 
"I  hate,"  he  said,  "those  Prussian  men, 
With  utter  hate  malignant. 
To  think  of  using  poisonous  gas 
To  kill  an  enemy!    Alas! 
I  cannot  see 
How  such  men  be!" 
And,  my!  he  was  malignant! 


The  Patriotic  Merchant  Prince 

I  KNOW  another   gentleman,    whose   name    I 
have  forgotten; 
His  line  of  merchandise  was  wool — or  maybe  it 

was  cotton. 

I  overheard  his  partner  and  himself  at  conversa 
tion 
Regarding  the  emoluments  of  cloth  adulteration. 


"Now,  larger  dividends  accrue  from  mixing  wool 
with  shoddy; 

We  have  to  stick  'em  somehow.  Ain't  it  done 
by  everybody? 

Besides,"  he  argued  clearly  as  a  Mannie  Kant 
magician, 

"  In  business,  you  must  do  a  lot  to  meet  the  com 
petition." 


That  night  I  heard  him  make  a  speech — a  sturdy 

and  sincere  one, 
If  it  has  ever  been  my  pleasant  privilege  to  hear 

one, 
Replete  with  ringing  words  it  was,  and  this  is  how 

it  ended : 
"The  honor  of  the  Stars  and  Stripes  [Applause] 

must  be  defended." 


14 


Song:   "Don't  Tell  Me  What  You 
Dreamt  Last  Night" 

A  DEBUTANTE  was  sitting  in  the  parlour  of 
her  flat; 

A  brave  young  man  upon  her  he  was  calling. 
They  talked  about  the  weather  and  the  war  and 

things  like  that, 

As  couples  will,  for  conversation  stalling. 
The  talk  it  all  went  merry  quite  until  the  young 

man  said: 
"Last  night   I   dreamed  that  you  had  gone 

away " 

The  debutante  put  up  her  hand  and  stopped  the 

young  man  dead, 
And  softly  unto  him  these  words  did  say: 

CHORUS 

"Don't  tell  me  what  you  dreamt  last  night,  I 

must  not  hear  you  speak! 
For  it  might  bring  a  crimson  blush  unto  my 

maiden  cheek. 
If  I  were  you,  that  subject  is  a  thing  that  I'd 

avoid — 
Don't  tell  me  what  you  dreamt  last  night,  for 

1  've  been  reading  Freud." 

A  loving  husband  sat  one  morn  at  breakfast  with 

his  wife, 

And  said  to  her:    "Oh,  Minnie,  pass  the  cream. 
Last  night  I  dreamed  that  Fritzi  Scheff  pursued 

me  with  a  knife, 

15 


Weights  and  Measures 

And  though  I  tried,  I  couldn't  even  scream." 
His  little  wife  put  up  her  hand,  and  said:    "Oh, 

pray  desist! 

To  tell  the  rest  of  it  might  break  my  heart. 
That  dream,   I   fear,  is  plain  to  any  psycho 
analyst." 
And  then  she  softly  wept,  and  said,  in  part : 


CHORUS 
"  Don't  tell  me  what  you  dreamt  last  night,"  etc. 


16 


The  Seamy  Side  of  Motley 

ADY,  when  we  sat  together, 

And  your  flow  of  talk  that  turned 
On  the  Park,  the  Play,  the  Weather, 

Left  me  frankly  unconcerned, 
I  could  see  how  hard  you  labour'd 

Till  your  brain  was  stiff  and  sore, 
Never  having  yet  been  neighbour'd 
By  so  dull  a  bore. 


Later  on,  from  information 
Gathered  elsewhere  after  lunch, 

You  had  got  at  my  vocation, 

Learned  that  I  belonged  to  Punch. 

And  in  tones  of  milk  and  honey 
You  invited  me  to  speak 

On  the  art  of  being  funny, 

Funny  once  a  week. 


Tis  a  task  that  haunts  me  waking, 
Like  a  vampire  on  the  chest, 

Spoils  my  peace,  prevents  my  taking 
Joyance  in  another's  jest; 

Makes  me  move  abroad  distracted, 
Trailing  speculative  feet; 

Makes  me  wear  at  home  a  racked  head 
In  a  dripping  sheet. 

!7 


Weights  and  Measures 

Women  hint  that  I  am  blinded 
To  their  chaste,  but  obvious,  charms; 

Sportsmen  deem  me  absent-minded 
When  addressed  to  feats  of  arms; 

If  the  sudden  partridge  rises 
I  but  rend  the  neighbouring  air, 

And  the  rabbit's  rude  surprises 
Take  me  unaware. 


Life  for  me's  no  game  of  skittles 
As  at  first  you  might  opine; 

I  have  lost  my  love  of  victuals 
And  a  pretty  taste  in  wine; 

WTien  at  lunch  your  talk  was  wasted, 
Did  you  notice  what  occurred — 

How  I  left  the  hock  untasted, 

How  I  passed  the  bird? 


So,  if  you  would  grant  a  favour, 

In  your  orisons  recall 
One  whose  smile  could  scarce  be  graver 

If  his  mouth  were  full  of  gall; 
Let  your  lips  (that  shame  the  ruby) 
Pray  for  mine  all  wan  and  bleak 
With  the  strain  of  trying  to  be 
Funny  every  week. 
— Owen  Seaman,  in  "Salvage.*1 
18 


Tie  Seamy  Side  of  Motley 

Lady,  you  have  heard  Sir  Owen 
Seaman,  editor  of  Punch. 

You  have  read  how  he  has  no  en- 
Thusiastic  love  of  lunch; 

Gone  his  disposition  sunny, 
Vanishing  his  fair  physique, 

With  the  strain  of  being  funny, 
Funny  once  a  week. 


Lady,  if  Sir  Owen's  ditty, 
Done  in  Seaman's  able  style, 

Earns  the  bard  your  gracious  pity, 
Gains  your  sympathetic  smile; 

If  the  load  he  labours  under 
Urges  you  to  tears;  if  he 

Calls  your  cardiac  nerve,  I  wonder 
How  you'd  feel  for  me. 


"Once  a  week!"    With  what  emotion, 

How  jejunely  I  should  jig 
To  my  job — mine  utter  notion 

Of  an  otium  cum  dig  ! 
Half  a  dozen  days  to  wake  up 

Unafraid  of  coming  night! 
Heedless  of  the  woes  of  makeup, 
And  the  need  to  write! 

19 


Weights  and  Measures 

Lady,  I  was  once  as  others, 
I  was  once  the  Party's  Life; 

Mingled  freely  with  my  brothers, 
Went  to  places  with  my  wife; 

Life  was  radiant,  life  was  rosy; 
Now  the  world  is  dull  and  drab. 

Gentle  persons  say:    "He's  prosy/ 
Others:    " He's  a  crab." 


Woes  too  terrible  to  mention 
Are  an  omnipresent  curse; 

Some  one  speaks — and  my  attention 
Wanders  to  to-morrow's  verse; 

When  I  play  at  mixed  doubles — 
It  has  happened  countless  times — 

All  my  thoughts  are  on  the  troubles 
Of  to-morrow's  rhymes. 


So,  my  lady,  wheresoever, 

Whosoever  you  may  be, 
Don't  you  think  you  might  endeavour 

To  devote  a  prayer  to  me? 
Let  your  eyes  (that  brown  or  blue  be) 

Dim  for  me,  already  gray 
With  the  strain  of  trying  to  be 
Funny  every  day. 


Summer  Night,  Riverside 

IN  THE  wild  soft  summer  darkness 
How  many  a  night  we  two  together 
Sat  in  the  park  and  watched  the  Hudson 
Wearing  her  lights  like  golden  spangles 
Glinting  on  black  satin! 
The  rail  along  the  curving  pathway 
Was  low  in  a  happy  place  to  let  us  cross, 
And  down  the  hill  a  tree  that  dripped  with  bloom 
Sheltered  us 

While  your  kisses  and  the  flowers, 
Falling,  falling, 
Tangled  my  hair. 

The  frail  white  stars  moved  slowly  over  the  sky. 


And  now 

Far  off,  far  off, 

The  tree  is  tremulous  again  with  bloom, 

For  June  is  here. 

To-night  what  girl 

When  she  goes  home, 

Dreamily,  before  her  mirror,  shakes  from  her  hair 

This  year's  blossoms  clinging  in  its  coils? 

— Sara  Teasdale,  in  The  Century. 

In  the  wild,  hot  summer  subway 

What  time  I  journeyed  home  from  work,  0  Sara, 

I  read  your  verses. 

21 


Weights  and  Measures 

Free  and  fetterless  as  any  barefoot  girl  in  Arcady, 
And  I  detrained  at  One  Hundred  and  Sixteenth 

Street 

And  walked 

One  block  west,  to  Riverside  Drive. 
I  sat  upon  a  bench,  avid  for  Adventure, 
Athirst  and  overyearnful  for  Romance; 
And  a  girl  came  along 
And  I  thought  of  the  blossoms  clinging  in  the  coils 

of  her  hair, 
And  I  said,  "Good  evening." 


She  said:    "You  fresh  guys  ought  to  be  arrested 
for  mashing." 


And  so  I  sat  there,  senseful  that  Romance  and 

such 

Were  not  for  me. 

All  that  paid  attention  to  me  were  mosquitoes; 
And  I  went  home, 
And,  dreamily  before  my  mirror, 
I  anointed  myself 
With  Oil  of  Citronella. 


Voices 

O  THERE  were  many  voices 
Vying  at  the  feast, 
And  through  them  I  remember 
Yours — you  spoke  the  least. 

— Witter  Bynner  in  McClure's. 


I  hope  that  all  the  speakers 
That  I've  heard  in  my  time 

Will  get  the  subtle  message 
Of  Mr.  Bynner's  rhyme. 


What  They  Ask 

ALWAYS  they  greet  you  and  say, 
"And  what  have  you  been  doing  ?" 

They  do  not  ask 
What  you  have  thought, 
How  you  wonder,  naively  grave, 
In  the  rich  silences  of  your  soul; 
Through  what  white  flames  you  have  passed, 
Scathed  clean,  feeling  your  loves  and  your  hates; 
Nor  of  the  dreams  you  have  dreamed, 
All  purple  and  gold  and  the  glory  of  gray  cloud 
heights. 

But  they  always  ask 
What  you  have  done 

And  they  know  a  thing  or  two. 

FRANCES. 

It's  like  this,  Frances: 

Time  was  when  girls  and  I  were  well  acquainted 

And  I  would  ask  them : 

"And  what  have  you  been  thinking? 

Through  what  candescent  flames  have  you  been 

passing? 

And  what — omitting  their  interpretation — have 
been  your  dreams?" 

And  they  would  tell  me. 

So  now  I  say : 

"And  what  have  you  been  doing?" 
24 


Verses  for  a  Guest  Room 

1HAVE  no  pomp  to  offer  thee; 
Just  my  heart's  hospitality — 
A  little  beam,  but  one  to  light 
The  lodging  of  an  anchorite. 


A  slumber  deep,  a  dreamless  rest, 
To  thee  within  this  room,  dear  guest! 
*Tis  sweet  to  me  that  thou  and  I 
This  night  beneath  one  roof  shall  lie; 
For  this  I  deem  most  dear,  my  guest, 
In  all  the  world,  or  east  or  west, 
Where'er  thy  tarrying  may  be, 
Blessed  is  the  roof  that  shelters  thee! 

— Anne  Arrabin  in  The  Century. 


No  pompous  couch,  no  trappings  grand, 
Do  I,  a  weary  guest,  demand. 
Your  hospitality  of  heart 
Compels  my  gratitude,  in  part. 


In  part,  because  I  find  the  guest 
Gets  hardly  any  dreamless  rest; 
The  kitchen  always  is  below 
His  room;  at  half-past  five  or  so 
He  hears  (pretending  not  to  mind  her) 
Your  Katie  at  the  coffee-grinder; 
Again  he  tries  to  sleep,  but  can't 
Because  the  covers  are  too  scant. 

25 


Weights  and  Measures 

I  know  it's  wrong,  or  north  or  south, 

To  look  a  gift  room  in  the  mouth; 

But  if  it's  all  the  same  to  you, 

I'll  take  the  11:32. 

Don't  bother,  please,  to  take  me  down — 

I  really  must  get  back  to  town. 


The  Taxi 

When  I  go  away  from  you 
The  world  beats  dead 
Like  a  slackened  drum. 
I  call  out  for  you  against  the  jutted  stars. 
And  shout  into  the  ridges  of  the  wind. 
Streets  coming  fast, 
One  after  the  other, 
Wedge  you  away  from  me, 
And  the  lamps  of  the  city  prick  my  eyes 
So  that  I  can  no  longer  see  your  face. 
Why  should  I  leave  you, 

To  wound  myself  against  the  sharp  edges  of  the 
night? 

— Amy  Lowell  in  The  Egoist. 

When  I  went  away  from  you 

The  world  beat  dead 

Like  a  banjo  stringless. 

Heard  I  you  call  against  the  stars, 

And  the  rest  of  it. 

But  I  had  to  go. 

For  I  read  the  mounting  meter  of  the  cab  and  it 

appalled  me, 
Frightened  me. 

Any  meter  terrifies  me,  if  you  know  what  I  mean. 
There  ought  to  be  meterless  cabs, 
Just  as 
There  is 
Meterless  verse. 


Vorticist  Poem  on  Love 

I OVE  is  the  great  inspirer — " 
*-*     I  have  read. 
The  day  before  yesterday 
I  could  not  write  poems 
Because  I  did  not  love. 
And  inarticulate, 
To-day  I  cannot  write 
Because  I  am  fallen  out  of  love. 
What's  the  use  of  love,  anyway? 

ARCHIE. 


On  Reading  "Vorticist  Poem 
on  Love" 

W  ET  many  poems  have  been  written 
*       Because  the  poet  was  unsmitten; 
And  many  a  sonnet  has  been  fashioned 
Because  the  bard  was  love-impassioned; 
And  many  a  lyric  has  been  lyred 
Because  of  loves  that  have  expired. 

Be  passion  dead,  unborn,  or  hot, 
Some  people  write  and  some  do  not. 


28 


The  Double  Standard 

IMPORTANT  is  the  nation's  health. 
1     Naught  is  the  question  of  the  shekel. 
Ill  fares  the  land  that  worships  wealth!" 
Says  Editorial  Dr.  Jekyll. 


"Do  you  get  up  with  pains  or  cricks? 
Do  you  have  stitches  in  the  side? 

BuyDr.Killman'sVit-E-Lix!" 


Says  Advertising  Mr.  Hyde 


"  Down  with  the  greedy  grafters  who 
The  land's  escutcheon  do  bespeckle! 

Three  cheers  for  the  Red,  White,  and  Blue!" 
Says  Editorial  Dr.  Jekyll. 


"Does  zero  weather  give  you  chills? 
Insomnia  leave  you  weary-eyed? 

Buy  Phakem's  Phony  Purple  Pills!" 


Says  Advertising  Mr.  Hyde 


"  Better  than  gold  an  honest  name." 
"  Be  true,  and  let  the  envious  heckle." 

"  Be  fair,  whoever  wins  the  game," 
Says  Editorial  Dr.  Jekyll. 


Lost  Energy?    Ambition?    Calm? 

GET  DR,  FIERGE'S  GILDED  GUIDE!" 

REHEMEMBER  BIDDY  BUNKEM'S  BALM!" 


Says  Advertising  Mr.  Hyde 

29 


If  the  Poets  Had  Feared  the 
Advertisers 

HEAR  the  sledges  with  the  bells, 
Bells  fashioned  of  a  well-known  metal. 


Up  from  the  meadows  rich  with  a  prominent  kind 

of  grain, 
Clear  in  the  cool  September  morn. 


The  clustered  spires  of  a  small  Southern  town 

stand, 
Green  walled  by  the  hills  of  a  famous  state 

below  Mason  and  Dixon's  line. 


When  as  in  a  certain  textile  fabric  my  Julia  goes, 
Then,  then,  methinks  how  sweetly  flows 
The  liquefaction  of  her  feminine  apparel. 


The  Ball  Game 

BY  OUR  OWN  RUGGLES  OF  RED  GAP 

A  YEAR  come  quarter-day  it  is  that  I  have  been 
**•  in  North  America.  I  may  be  pardoned,  I 
trust,  if  I  say  that  in  that  brief  period  I  have 
grown  so  accustomed  to  the  manners  and  speech 
of  our  late  colonists  that  I  am  able  to  endure  them 
without  the  shocks  that  I  experienced  during  my 
first  fortnight  in  the  New  York  city.  Scores  of 
strange  customs,  in  dress  and  diction,  which  at 
first  gave  me  a  bit  of  a  jolt,  now  contribute  noth 
ing  to  my  astonishment.  Inured  I  am  to  their 
eccentricities.  I  mean  to  say,  I  am  almost 
quite  a  little  Hepzibah  to  their  stuff. 

After  luncheon,  which  consisted  of  a  thick  soup, 
a  fairish  chop,  not  too  rare,  and  a  plum  tart,  I 
brisked  down  to  the  Daily  Morning  New  York 
City  Tribune  office,  for  a  chat  with  Mr.  Geoffrey- 
Parsons,  an  oldish  josser,  and  one  of  their  sub 
editors.  Dressed  in  a  goodish  lounge  suit  of 
tweeds  he  was,  form-fitting  but  necessarily  large, 
and  with  rather  an  air,  save  for  his  collar,  which 
he  allows  to  remain  too  wide  apart  at  the  middle, 
an  effect  which  might  be  eliminated  by  drawing 
closer  the  cravat. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Ruggles,"  he  said.  "What  is  the 
good  word?" 

It  was  a  fair  crumpler.  Good  words  I  had, 
and  in  abundance,  for  one's  vocabulary  is  one's 
thought-apparel;  and  one  should  be  plenteously 
and  variously  equipped.  It  is  a  matter  I  have 

31 


Weights  and  Measures 

been  sedulous  about,  always.  I  am,  as  one  of 
their  illustrated  weeklies  once  said  of  me,  at  that 
particular  point  with  the  Noah  Webster  material. 

Yet  all  of  a  heap  I  was  when  Mr.  Geoffrey- 
Parsons  asked  me  for  the  excellent  word.  His 
use  of  the  definite  article  fair  stunned  me.  Had 
he  said  "a  good  word,"  I  should  have  been  able 
to  instance  him  an  hundred,  but  the  limitation 
nonplussed  me.  However,  I  had  learned  a 
habit  of  theirs — to  answer  one  of  their  queries 
with  another.  Rude  it  is,  like  returning  a  letter 
unopened.  It  would  never  do  with  us.  But  I 
had  to  pay  him  out. 

"Quite  so,  sir/'  I  said.  "How  is  every  small 
thing?" 

I  rather  had  him  there,  for  he  elected  to  close 
the  parley,  leaving  me  a  winner,  with  the  last 
word. 

"  How  would  you  like  to  go  to  the  based-ball 
game,"  he  asked  me,  "and  do  us  a  bit  about  it?" 

"  I  should  absobeastlylutely  love  it,  old  dearo," 
I  replied,  resolved  to  see  it  through  like  a  dead 
sportsman.  For  although  I  was  not  without 
misgiving  as  to  my  knowledge  of  this  game,  never 
having  seen  a  based-ball  court  even,  yet  I  felt  it 
would  be  an  error  to  confess  to  a  lack  of  knowl 
edge  or  skill  of  anything  whatsoever.  The  North 
Americans  simply  do  not  do  it.  They  have  tre 
mendous  confidence  and  assurance  of  their  power 
to  put  things  through,  and,  as  they  phrase  it,  they 
generally  make  off  with  it.  I  mean  to  say,  I  was 

32 


The  Ball  Game 

bound  to  have  a  go  at  it  and  not  funk  my 
fences. 

Upon  an  air-tram  I  went,  through  what  would 
have  been  our  Bloomsbury,  past  their  Wapping 
Old  Stairs,  which  they  call  "Harlem."  Beside  a 
tarn,  hard  by  a  bit  of  a  stream  it  was.  "Polo 
Ground,"  they  called  it,  and  groomed  and  lawned 
it  was  in  a  way  that  would  have  done  Wimbledon 
itself  no  discredit.  Seats  everywhere  there  were, 
but  I  was  taken  into  the  pressmen's  cage,  where 
the  journalists  were  engaged  in  taking  notes  of 
the  encounter,  which  was,  I  soon  learned,  be 
tween  the  Manhattans  and  the  Brooklyns.  These 
are  but  boroughs  of  the  same  city,  yet  these 
North  Americans,  with  that  drollery  of  exaggera 
tion  they  so  frequently  employ,  term  these 
players  the  National  League.  Uncomic  it  is  not, 
but  it  would  never  do  with  us. 

As  to  the  rules  of  the  sport,  I  make  no  secret 
that  I  do  not  grasp  them.  The  Manhattans, 
they  tell  me,  trounced  the  Brooklyns  by  sixteen 
runs  to  three;  yet  the  Brooklyns  played  nine 
innings  to  the  Manhattans'  eight.  This,  how 
ever,  was  the  only  thing  in  which  it  appeared 
that  the  Brooklyns  excelled;  and  even  in  that 
department  the  discrepancy  was  slight. 

Loud  the  exhortations  were  from  the  specta 
tors.  When  Mr.  Pfeifer,  the  Brooklyns'  throwing 
fellow,  appeared  to  be  losing  his  skill,  I  heard  all 
manner  of  discourteous  remarks.  Surely  he  must 
have  heard  some  of  them,  for  once  I  distinctly 

33 


Weights  and  Measures 

observed  him,  when  a  chap  cried,  "Eject  him. 
He  is  rotting,"  give  the  navvy  a  jolly  good 
glare.  But  the  counsel  seemed  sound,  for  Mr. 
Pfeffer  was  thereafter  ejected,  and  a  Mr.  Schmutz, 
a  stalwart  looking  North  American,  kindly  did  his 
throwing  for  him.  Friendly  assistance  of  this 
sort  is  common,  I  believe,  one  man  frequently 
batting  for  another  who  may  feel  misgivings 
about  his  hitting-out  prowess. 

In  the  pressmen's  cage  were  many  young  men, 
all  discussing  the  sport.  Jolly  they  were,  though 
careless  in  their  dress.  Two  only  I  saw  who  were 
vogue — Mr.  Damon  Runyon,  who  wore  a  blue- 
silk  flowered  shirt  and  cravat  that  blended,  but 
toned  boots,  a  correct  lounge  suit,  and  a  black 
bowler;  and  Mr.  H.  Bayard  Swope,  with  an  ut 
terly  decentish  brown  top  coat.  Also  a  Miss 
Leonard,  who  wore  bronze  slippers  and  brown 
spats — a  bit  of  O.  K.,  as  the  urchins  say.  She 
mattered  enormously. 

Back  to  the  Daily  Morning  New  York  City 
Tribune  office  I  came,  with  Mr.  John  Hines  in  his 
motor  I  went.  It  was  top-hole,  no  end,  riding 
along  through  what  would  be  Piccadilly,  and 
along  the  Embankment.  I  reentered  the  sub 
editor  Parsons'  room.  Though  it  was  quite 
evening,  he  was  attired  precisely  as  when  I  had 
seen  him  in  the  early  afternoon!  I  made  no 
comment,  as  I  trust  I  know  my  place.  But  a 
lounge  suit  in  the  evening — it  would  never  do 
with  us. 

34 


Tie  Ball  Game 

"Shall  you  have  any  difficulty  with  your 
article,  Mr.  Ruggles?"  he  asked  me. 

"I  fancy  not,"  1  answered.  "I  fancy  it  will 
be  a  clay  pipe  snapper." 


35 


Tipperary 

I 
BY  OUR  OWN  JAMES  OPPENHEIM 

Far,  far, 

The  lineally-measured  distance  from  East 
Fourteenth  Street,  New  York,  to  Tipperary, 

Distant,  distant  the  place  and  dreary-spent, 
drawn-out,  the  hours  in  journeying  thither 

To,  of  my  entire  man-found  acquaintance,  the 
most  desirable,  the  most  yearning-to-be-pos 
sessed,  of  women. 

Piccadilly  and  Leicester  Square,  good-bye! 

Far,  far  is  it  to  Tipperary 

But  my  sky-soaring  soul,  my  myriad-hearted 
heart  is  there. 

II 

As  THE  TRANSLATORS  WOULD  HAVE  INTERLINED 
IT,  IF  HORACE  HAD  WRITTEN  IT 

O  thou  Torquatus,  the  space  to  Tipperarium 
is  (many)  thousand  of  paces,  a  wide  distance  in 
the  travelling.  The  space  to  Tipperarium  is 
(many)  thousand  of  paces  toward  the  propinquity 
to  the  most  sweet  virgin  of  whom  knowledge  is  to 
me.  Farewell,  O  (thou)  Piccadillium!  Fare 
well,  O  rectangle  of  (the  consul)  Lestertius!  The 
space  to  Tipperarium  is  (many)  thousand  of 
paces,  yet,  moreover,  my  heart  at  that  location  is 
present. 

36 


Tipperary 

III 

As  THE  INTERLINEARS  MIGHT  TAKE  IT  FROM 
XENOPHON 

He  spoke  as  follows:  (that)  it  is  ten  parasangs 
to  Tipherarikos,  which  is  a  great  distance  for  the 
purpose  of  going;  it  is  ten  parasangs  to  Tipher 
arikos,  also,  moreover,  in  the  direction  of  the  girl 
to  me  than  the  honey  of  Hymettus  more  sweet, 
whom  I  know.  Fare  thee  well,  O  Pikadillos! 
And  thou,  O  Park  (Paradise)  of  Leichester!  It 
is  ten  parasangs  to  Tipherarikos,  at  which  place 
exist  the  vitals  of  me. 


IV 

BY  OUR  OWN  A.  E.  HOUSMAN 

A  LASS  in  Tipperary 
Is  miles  and  miles  away, 
But  oh,  the  cherry  blossom  blooms 
Above  her  grave  to-day! 


The  trip  to  Tipperary 

Is  not  for  me  to  start; 
For  oh,  the  cherry  blossom  blooms 

Above  my  beating  heart! 

37 


Weights  and  Measures 

V 

BY  OUR  OWN  EUGENE  FIELD 

I've  been  on  many  a  lengthy  trip  since  that  I  was 

a  boy, 
And  some  have  filled  my  breast  with  pain  and 

some  my  soul  with  joy; 
I've  taken  brief  excursion  trips  and  journeys 

overlong, 
And  each  of  them  I've  made  the  theme  of  story 

or  of  song. 

I've  been  to  California  and  I've  been  to  New 
foundland; 
I've  shipped  along  the  Danube  and  I've  sailed  the 

Rio  Grande; 

But  no  trip  I  have  taken  yet  is  worthy  to  compare 
With  that  to  Tipperary,  for 

My 

Heart's 
Right 

There. 

I've  been  to  Red  Hoss  Mountain,  where  the  boys 
was  rough  and  true; 

I've  been  to  Colorado,  where  the  summer  skies  is 
blue; 

To  Boston,  Mass.,  to  Bangor,  Maine,  to  Provi 
dence,  R.  I., 

To  Baltimore,  Schenectady,  Los  Angeles,  and 
Rye; 

38 


Tipperary 

I've  been  to  Tallahassee,  Texarkana,  Jackson 
ville; 
To  Springfield,  O.,   and  Springfield,   Mo.,  and 

Springfields,  Mass,  and  111., 
But,  if  I  choose  my  pilgrimage,  I  much  prefer  to 

fare 
Me  forth  to  Tipperary,  for 

My 

Heart's 
Right 

There. 


The  Piccadilly  Ponies  and  the  Leicester  Square 

Sextette 
Are  powerless  to  draw  my  eye  or  make  my  heart 

forget. 
No  Persian  princess  on  her  throne,  no  darne  of 

high  degree, 
No  lady  in  her  limousine  can  lure  my  love  from 

me. 
Let  others  by  the  blandishments  of  Broadway  be 

beguiled, 

I  go  to  Tipperary,  just  to  see  a  little  child. 
By-low  and  sleep,  my  prettikins,  God  bless  your 

curly  hair! 
It's  far  to  Tipperary,  but 

My 

Heart's 
Right 

There. 

39 


"Jenny  Kissed  Me" 

[There  is  Leigh  Hunt's  "Jenny  Kissed  Me,"  for  example.  Suppose  be 
had  made  a  short  story  of  it! — ARTHUR  GUITERMAN.] 

Jenny  kissed  me  when  we  met, 

Jumping  from  the  chair  she  sat  in; 
Time,  you  thief,  who  love  to  get 

Sweets  into  your  list,  put  that  in! 
Say  I'm  weary,  say  I'm  sad, 

Say  that  health  and  wealth  have  missed  me, 
Say  I'm  growing  old,  but  add 
Jenny  kissed  me. 

— LEIGH  HUNT. 

BY  OUR  OWN  ARNOLD  BENNETT 

WITH  his  right  hand  Edwin  Clayhanger 
turned  the  glass  knob  of  the  front  door — 
glass  knobs  had  just  been  introduced  in  Bursley 
— opened  the  door,  took  a  step  over  the  slightly 
worn  threshold,  closed  the  door — not  without 
effort,  for  it  had  warped  a  little,  and  had  a  habit 
of  sticking  at  the  top — and  walked  down  the  three 
white  stone  steps  to  the  gate.  The  upper  gate- 
hinge  was  minus  a  screw.  It  had  been  so  for  six 
months,  and  Edwin  wondered  whether  he  would 
speak  again  to  Hilda  about  it.  He  speculated 
with  himself;  offered  himself  odds  of  nine  to  five 
that  the  hinge  would  be  repaired  before  he  re 
turned  from  London.  Grimly  he  thought  of  the 
advantages  the  layer  of  such  a  wager  would  have: 
the  train  might  be  wrecked  and  he  might  be 
killed,  then  he  would  not  return,  and  technically 
he  would  win  the  bet. 

Well,  suppose  he  were  killed.    What  then? 


"Jenny  Kissed  Me" 

What  had  he  that  his  meanest  labourer  had  not? 
And  his  meanest  labourer  had  the  supreme  advan 
tage  of  latent  romance,  of  potential  adventure. 
Anything  that  might  happen  to  Edwin  Clay- 
hanger's  meanest  labourer  would  be  an  ameliora 
tion,  a  splash  of  crimson  on  a  drab  life  scheme. 
But  to  Edwin  Clayhanger,  a  figure  in  the  Five 
Towns,  nothing  could  happen. 

But  things  happened  in  other  places.  It  was 
conceivable,  for  instance,  that  a  Liverpool  man 
might  be  going  that  morning  to  London  to  con 
sult  an  oculist,  as  Edwin  was;  but  it  was  incon 
ceivable  that  the  Liverpool  trip  would  not  be 
crowded  with  zestful  and  romantic  incident. 
For  nothing  really  happened  in  the  Five  Towns, 
or  to  Five  Towns  people.  Take  the  matter  of 
his  marriage.  He  had  been  married  six  years 
and  he  did  not  understand  his  wife.  He  never 
knew  precisely  what  she  would  do  or  say.  Why 
were  women  like  that?  Were  they  like  that? 
His  sister  Clara  was  not.  You  could  tell  what 
Clara  was  going  to  do  that  morning;  and  you 
knew  what  she  would  say  next  quarter-day  at  ten 
o'clock.  There  were  no  misgivings  about  a 
woman  like  Clara.  But  would  he  like  that?  He 
thought,  with  some  distaste,  too,  he  admitted,  of 
the  infrequent  times  when  Hilda  had  done  exactly 
what  she  thought  she  would  do — or  what  any 
body  else  would  have  done.  And  he  was  glad 
she  was  not  as  anybody  else. 

That  was  the  trouble  with  him.     He  was  ir- 


Weighis  and  Measures 

resolute.  He  was  convinced,  as  he  passed 
through  the  gate  into  the  street,  that  his  marriage 
was  a  mistake;  and  as  he  turned  into  the  road 
leading  to  the  station  he  was  certain  that  it  was 
an  exciting,  delightful,  and  interesting  adventure. 
He  was  sorry  he  had  left  without  waking  Hilda; 
but  she  had  known  that  he  was  going  to  London 
— and  she  should  have  awakened.  She  had  been 
awake  early  enough,  he  thought,  with  growing 
irritation,  the  morning  she  and  her  son  George 
had  gone  to  the  London  oculist's.  Could  she 
have  been  awake  this  morning?  He  wondered. 
It  was  possible.  For  she  had  not  wanted  him  to 
go  to  London,  he  knew;  and  he  was  going  more  to 
prove  his  right  to  go — because  she  and  George 
had  gone — than  because  he  had  any  desire  to 
visit  London,  or,  negatively,  to  leave  the  shop  for 
a  whole  day. 

He  was  ten  minutes  too  soon.  He  bought  a 
copy  of  The  Pilot  to  read  on  the  train.  Passen 
gers  in  increasing  numbers  gathered  on  the  plat 
form.  Were  they  all  going  to  London  on  some 
momentous  quest?  Not  one  of  them  but  looked 
more  important  than  Edwin  felt  that  he  ap 
peared.  "What  contempt  they  would  have  for 
me,"  he  thought,  "if  they  knew  I  was  going 
merely  to  ask  an  oculist  about  my  sight!  And 
what  important  missions  they  must  have!" 

He  boarded  the  train  and  sat  down.     He  took 
The  Pilot  from  his  pocket  and  tried  to  read. 
The  page  seemed  to  blur. 
42 


"Jenny  Kissed  Me" 

He  thought : 

"They  oughtn't  to  print  so  much  stuff  in  solid 
six-point.  It's  too  hard  to.  read.  They  ought 
to  lead  it.  I  can't  read  it  at  all.  And  if  1 
can't " 

But  did  that  follow?  It  struck  him  with  sud 
den  horror  that  he  was  going  to  London  to  consult 
an  oculist.  Perhaps  type  was  clear  and  legible. 
Undoubtedly  his  eyes  were  failing.  He  was  forty- 
two.  Men  had  gone  blind  at  thirty,  he  supposed. 
It  was  possible.  At  any  rate,  he  would  have  to 
wear  glasses,  and  what  would  Hilda  think  of  that? 
She  had  said,  he  remembered,  that  she  loved  the 
look  in  his  eyes,  and  while  he  recalled  having 
looked  at  himself  in  the  mirror  the  night  she  told 
him,  and  having  found  nothing  unusual  about  his 
eyes,  yet  he  was  distinctly  depressed  at  the  pros 
pect  of  lessening  any  of  his  good  physical  points. 
He  thought  of  his  diminished  efficiency  at  the 
shop,  in  the  event  of  blindness,  but  that  idea 
disturbed  him  not  nearly  so  much  as  that  of  the 
effect  upon  Hilda.  By  this  time  she  would  be  up, 
he  fancied.  Would  she  worry  that  he  had  gone, 
as  he  had  said  last  night  he  would  do?  Well,  she 
might  as  well  learn  that  Edwin  Clayhanger  was 
a  man  whose  word,  apparently  lightly  given,  was 
as  binding  as  any  contract  Fearns  himself  could 
have  drawn.  Still,  he  would  telegraph  in  the 
evening. 


43 


Weights  and  Measures 

II 

He  walked  slowly  from  the  London  station  into 
the  crowd.  Not  one  of  them  but  seemed  younger 
than  he. 

He  thought: 

"I'm  forty-two.  Lots  of  men  have  died  at 
ages  younger  than  that.  I  might  die  to-day  and 
nobody  would  say,  'What  a  young  man!'" 
Weariness  of  soul  and  limb  surged  over  him; 
perspiration  came  out  on  his  palms. 

Ill 

He  ascended  the  stairs  leading  to  Dr.  Carping- 
ton's  office.  They  were  laid  with  linoleum.  The 
sign  on  the  door  said  "  DR.  ANTHONY  CARP- 
INGTON,  OCULIST  AND  OPTOMETRIST, 
ENTRANCE."  He  noted  that  he  had  no  diffi 
culty  in  deciphering  the  characters;  printed, 
he  thought,  with  the  professional  approval  of  the 
type  expert,  in  8o-point  Gothic  expanded.  An 
oculist  who  knew  enough  to  have  a  sign  as  well 
printed  as  that  would  be  a  man  to  be  trusted.  If 
he  should  tell  Edwin  his  sight  was  perfect,  Edwin 
would  believe  him;  if  he  should  condemn  him 

He  opened  the  door  and  entered  a  small  waiting 
room.  At  a  small  desk  was  seated  a  young 
woman.  Edwin  noted  her  yellow  hair  and  her 
pink  and  white  complexion.  She  wore  patent 
leather  shoes,  a  green  velvet  skirt,  and  a  white 

44 


"Jenny  Kissed 

silk  waist.  She  was  slight,  but  all  her  clothes 
seemed  just  a  trifle  too  tight.  It  was  attractive, 
though,  thought  Edwin;  scarcely  moral.  It 
would  never  do  in  the  Five  Towns. 

As  Edwin  entered,  the  young  woman  turned  her 
head.  She  looked  at  Edwin  for  an  instant,  smiled : 
and,  jumping  from  the  chair  she  sat  in,  threw 
both  arms  about  him  and  kissed  him  twice — the 
second  time  the  kiss  was  of  appreciable  duration 
— upon  the  lips. 

"  I'm  Jenny,"  she  cried. 


IV 

Edwin  Clayhanger  was  riding  back  to  Bursley 
on  the  noon  train.  "What  rot!"  he  thought, 
with  a  smile.  "A  man  of  my  years  to  worry 
about  his  eyes.  Or  anything.  Twenty-four 
hours  in  a  day!  And  hundreds  of  days  in  a  year! 
And  the  indefinite  number  of  years  I  have  yet  to 
live!" 

He  hurried  from  the  station  to  his  house,  full 
of  romantic  possibilities,  and  the  savour  of 
existence  thrilled  him  throughout. 


Weights  and  Measures 
BY  OUR  OWN  TOM  DALY 

Signer,  I  gattin'  old  an*  gray, 
But — Rosa  keess  me  yestiday. 


Joos'  yestiday,  w'en  I  am  stan' 
Right  here  by  my  peanutta  stan', 
A  granda  lady,  beeg  an'  fine, 
Weeth  leeps  joos'  like  Eetalia's  wine, 
Ees  com'  in  soocha  fina  car 
An'  ask  how  mooch  peanuttas  are. 
Her  hair  so  black,  her  han'  so  small 
I  say,  "You  notta  pay  at  all." 
An'  she  ees  joomp  from  off  da  seat, 
An'  keessa  me — oh,  my,  so  sweet! 
Not  like  da  kees  from  child  or  wife, 
But  deeferent,  you  bat  my  life! 


Signor,  I  gattin'  old  an'  gray, 
But — Rosa  keess  me  yestiday! 


Dove  River  Anthology 

BY  OUR  OWN  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 
LUCY  GRAY 

SHE  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways 
Near  Dove  Springs  Junction; 
A  girl  whom  nobody  ever  praised, 
A  maiden  whose  lovers  were  few. 
A  dandelion  by  a  mossy  boulder, 
Fair  as  a  solitary  shining  star, 
She  lived  unknown. 
Few  were  informed  of  her  death. 
But  it  made  a  difference  to  some. 
Eh,  William  Wordsworth? 


47 


A  Rhymed  Review 

"THE  LAUGHING  MUSE" 
(By  Arthur  Guiterman.    Harper  &*  Brothers) 

AN  OBVIOUS  thing  for  one  to  do 
For  one  who  runs  this  kind  of  colyum 
Is  to  attempt  a  Rhymed  Review 
Of  Arthur  Guiterman's  new  volume. 


("The  Laughing  Muse."    One  Dollar,  net) 
A  better  bargain  readers  could  not 

In  all  their  days  of  seeking  get — 
Though  maybe  I  say  so  that  should  not. 


(Observe  that  stanza.     How  it  creaks 
With  rhymes  and  verbiage  extraneous! 

Friend  Arthur  would  have  worked  for  week? 
To  make  that  stanza  seem  spontaneous.) 


For  him  no  fault  of  limping  line, 
No  flaws  in  joining  or  connection; 

I  rate  his  verse  ahead  of  mine, 
Which  is  to  hail  it  as  perfection. 


If  you  don't  know  his  lyric  stuff, 
I  beg  of  you  to  blow  a  dollar; 

To  you  who  know  I've  said  enough — 
I  needn't  emphasize  my  holler. 

48 


A  Rhymed  Review 

P.  S.    The  book  is  large  and  fine. 

("The  Laughing  Muse,"  by  Arthur  Guiter- 
man)  and  contains  that  deathless  line, 

"  I  hope  to  God  a  lion  bit  her/' 


That  General  Utility  Rag 

BY  OUR  OWN  IRVING  BERLIN 

I  LIKE  to  hear — yes,  yes! — I  like  to  hear 
The  music  of  a  big  brass  band. 

I  love  the  tone 

Of  the  slide  trombone  [Bus.  of  slide  trombone] 

And  the  saxophone  [Bus.  of  saxophone] 

So  grand. 

But  I  want  to  be 

General  utility — 

I  want  to  try 

That  baby-cry  [Bus.  of  baby-cry]', 

Want  to  play  the  rattle  [Bus.  of  rattle]  and  the 
castanet     [Bus.  of  castanet]; 

Want  to  bang  the  tom-tom  [Bus.  of  tom-tom]  and 
the  tambourette  [Bus.  of  tambourette]; 

Want  to  jangle 

That  old  triangle  [Bus.  of  triangle]; 

Cut  a  caper 

With  the  old  sandpaper  [Bus.  of  sandpaper]', 

Ring  those  sleighbells  [Bus.  of  sleigbbells]  and 
those  chimes  [Bus.  of  cbimes] 

And  crack  that  whip  [Bus.  of  whip]  about  a  mil 
lion  times. 

I  want  to  beat  that  thunder-sheet  [Bus.  of  tbun- 
der-sbeet] 

I  like  the  smash  of  the  old  glass-crash  [Bus.  of 
glass-crasb] 

I  want  to  go  on — yes,  go  on — 

I  want  to  go  on — yes,  go  on — 

I  want  to  go  on  a  musical  jag! 

50 


That  General  Utility  Rag 

I  want  to  have  a  symphonical  souse 

Like  a  syncopated   [Bus.  of  syncope]   Richard 

Strauss. 

I  want  to  play — hooray! — 
All  day — hooray! — 
With  facility 
And  agility 
That  General  Utility 
Ra-a-a-g! 


Ode  to  Work 

AFTER  CALVERLEY'S  "ODE  TO  TOBACCO" 

THOU,  who  when  joys  appear 
Bidst  them  begone,  and  mere 
Pleasure,  delight,  or  cheer, 

Scorning  regardest ; 
Hard,  when  the  morn  is  gray; 
Hard,  when  they've  cleared  away 
Lunch;  and  at  close  of  day 
Possibly  hardest: 


I  have  a  hatred  old 

For  thee,  though  manifold 

Stories,  I  know,  are  told, 

All  to  thy  credit; 
How  they  who  love  to  slave, 
Avid  of  work,  and  brave, 
Fill  a  not  early  grave, 

(Gosh!  how  I  dread  it!) 


How  they  who  love  to  shirk 
Duties  that  chafe  and  irk, 
Loathing  all  kinds  of  work, 

Reft  of  ambitions, 
Urgeless  and  uninspired, 
Sodden  and  dull  and  tired, 
Ultimately  get  fired — 

Lose  their  positions. 

52 


Ode  to  Work 

Often  a  friend  when  he 
Greets  me  will  say  to  me: 
"Oh,  how  you  gleefully 

Jingle  and  jest  it!" 
Friend,  if  you  care  for  my 
Shameless  expression,  why, 
Let  me  be  honest :  I 

Simply  detest  it. 


Work,  I  have  heard  it  claimed, 
Makes  one  beloved  and  famed; 
Haply  I  shall  be  blamed 

Now  if  I  slack  it. 

Blame  me,  then    ...    I  don't  care 
One  little  tinker's  swear. 
Me  for  the  open  air — 

Give  me  my  racquet! 


[STRANGE  CASES 


The  Case  of  Edgar  Abbott  and 
Philip  Ridd 


was  Edgar  Alvin  Abbott,  who  had. 
*      never  learned  to  swim; 
All  the  science  of  natation  was  unconnable  to  him. 
All  his  efforts  went  for  nothing,  and  his  comrades' 

japes  and  jeers 

Were  his  portion  every  summer  of  his  forty-seven 
years. 


Patiently  he  bore  the  mockeries  of  the  swimmers 
on  the  beach, 

But  the  useful  art  of  swimming  ever  stayed  be 
yond  his  reach; 

And  whenever  one  would  ask  him,  with  a  wish  to 
scoff  and  mock, 

"Do  you  swim?"  he'd  always  answer,  "Sure,  I 
swim  just  like  a  rock." 


Philip  Albert  Aloysius  Ebenezer  Cabot  Ridd 
Started  out  to  be  a  swimmer  when  he  was  a  little 

kid— 
("Kid"  is  not  a  word  I  worship,  but  the  lapse  is 

rather  slight. 
if  such  usages  offend  you,  do  not  read  the  things  I 

write). 

57 


Weights  and  Measures 

Philip  Ridd  could  do  the  paddle  and  the  trudgeon 

and  the  crawl; 
He  could  float  and  do  a  jacknife — he  was  master 

of  them  all. 
He  had  strength,  he  had  endurance,  he  had  speed- 

iness  of  stroke; 
And  he  always  thought  of  Edgar  Alvin  Abbott  as 

a  joke. 


Once,  as  Philip  Ridd  and  Edgar  Abbott  stood  upon 
the  shore, 

They  observed  a  maiden  swimming  out  a  hundred 
yards  or  more; 

And  they  saw  the  waves  were  angry  and  in 
ordinately  high, 

And  they  saw  the  maiden  struggle,  and  they 
heard  the  maiden  cry. 


Braver  hearts  than   Philip   Ridd's  and   Edgar 

Abbott's  might  have  quailed; 
Braver  souls  than  Phil's  or  Eddie's  in  that  crisis 

might  have  failed. 
"Save  me!    Save  me!"  cried  the  maiden,  and  our 

hero  Philip  Ridd, 
Leaping  bravely  to  her  rescue,  cried:    "I'll  save 

you!"    And  he  did. 

58 


A  Consistent  Girl 

MISS  Dorothea  Birmingham  Irene  Amanda 
Jones 
Was  one  to  tell  about  her  plans  in  no  uncertain 

tones. 
She  never  staked  a  nickel  on  the  fickle  wheel  of 

chance, 

But  reckoned  all  her  sayings  and  her  doings  in 
advance. 


In  January  Dorothea  knew  that  in  July 

She'd  go  to  such-and-such  a  place,  with  whom 

she'd  go,  and  why; 
She  knew  what  minute  she  would  rise  and  when 

she'd  go  to  bed. 
And  what  she'd  have  for  dinner  six  or  seven  years 

ahead. 


No  purposes  or  plans  so  firm  as  were  Miss 

Dorothea's. 
Her  parents  used  to  say  to  her:    "Oh,  Dot,  you 

have  ideas!" 

But  argument  of  any  sort  would  never  alter  Dot, 
Or  budge  her  one  scintilla,  bit,  iota,  tittle,  jot. 


Among  the  plans  immutable  that  filled  her  pretty 

head 
Was  that  concerning  whom  she  would  and  whom 

she  wouldn't  wed; 

59 


Weights  and  Measures 

Her  future  mate  must  be  a  man  of  uttermost  per 
fection, 

Whose  character  and  pedigree  would  bear  minute 
inspection. 

"The  man  that  I  select,"  she'd  say,  "the  husband 

of  my  choice, 
Must  have  a  giant  stature  and  a  sweet,  sonorous 

voice; 
A  noble  heart,  a  mammoth  mind,  a  mass  of  curly 

hair, 
A  pretty  wit — and  also  he  must  be  a  millionaire." 

Now   Padonaram   Perkins   was   the   silliest   of 

plumbers; 
His  weak  and  astigmatic  eyes  had  squinted  sixty 

summers; 
The  chill  of  sixty  winters  used  to  creak  and  crack 

his  bones; 
But  once  he  met  upon  the  street  Miss  Dorothea 

Jones. 

"O  lady,"  Padonaram  cried,  "whoever  you  may 

be, 
I'm  asking  you,  right  here  and  now,  if  you  will 

marry  me. 
O  lady,  will  you  marry  me?  I  beg,  beseech  and 

hope!" 
And,  Dorothea,  queenly  and  consistent,  answered 

"Nope." 

60 


The  Case  of  Albert  Irving 
Williamson 

NOW,  Albert  Irving  Williamson  was  innocent 
and  young; 
Nor  evil  thought  was  in  his  mind,  nor  word  upon 

his  tongue. 

He  drank  no  alcoholic  brews,  he  smoked  no  nico 
tine; 
He  was  about  as  good  a  youth  as  I  have  ever  seen. 

But  alcohol  and  nicotine,  injurious  though 
they  be, 

Are  utterly  irrelevant  to  Albert's  historee. 

Still,  if  I  choose  to  mention  things  that  are  irrele 
vant, 

Pray,  who  are  you  to  censure  me  or  tell  me  that  I 
can't? 


He  was,  I  say,  a  blameless  youth  who  shunned 

the  sinful  deeps; 
He  never  played  at  marbles  with  the  other  boys 

for  keeps; 
He  never  played  a  gambling  game  of  any  kind  or 

sort — 
Young  Albert  Irving  Williamson  was  not  at  all  a 

sport. 

Now  Albert  chanced  to  ride  upon  a  Pullman 

palace  smoker 
Whose  occupants,  a  rough  and  vulgar  crowd,  were 

playing  poker. 

61 


Weights  and  Measures 

"Ah,  ha!"  then  whispered  one  of  them  as  Albert 

came  in  sight, 
"Leave  us  go  after  this  here  boob  and  trim  the 

sucker  right." 

(I  do  not  hold  with  talk  like  that,  but  it  is  not  this 
bard's. 

It  is  the  verbiage  used  by  such  as  like  to  play  at 
cards.) 

"Oh,  please  to  play  a  bit  with  us,"  up  spake  those 
gambling  men, 

"Sit  in  with  us  till  Utica — we're  due  at  seven- 
ten." 

So  Albert  Irving  Williamson,  who  knew  no  single 

rule 
Of  poker,  played  with  men  who  thought  that 

Albert  was  a  fool — 
Our  Albert  Irving  Williamson,  to  whose  untutored 

mind 
The  nine  of  straights  was  just  as  good  as  seven  of 

a  kind. 


Oh,  pride  it  is  a  parlous  thing,  and  comes  before  a 

fall! 
The  gamblers  went  for  Albert's  roll  until  they  got 

it  all. 
In  spite  of  Albert's  ignorance,  of  which  there  was  a 

lot, 
Our  hero  did  not  win  a  single  solitary  pot. 

62 


The  Case  of  Domineering  John 
Alexis  Upham 

WHEN  John  Alexis  Upham  was  a  little  lad  of 
two, 
He  made  his  nurse  do  everything  he  wanted  her 

to  do; 

A  domineering  darling,  an  imperious  little  lad, 
His  parents  thought  him  lordly,  but  the  neigh 
bours  called  him  bad. 


He  ruled  the  other  boys  at  school;  in  classroom 
and  at  play 

Our  John  Alexis  Upham  always  had  to  have  his 
way. 

At  college  (on  the  campus  they  discuss  his  man 
ners  still), 

Nor  student  nor  professor  ever  dared  to  cross  his 
will. 


As  energetic  business  man  he  took  a  stubborn 

stand, 
And  not  a  clerk  or  merchant  prince  would  counter 

his  command. 
Resistance  to  his  orders  never  came  from  any 

one; 
Did  he  say  "Go  and  do  it  thus,"  why,  thus  'twas 

always  done. 

63 


WeigHs  and  Measures 

But  John  Alexis  fell   in   love— such  incidents 

occur — 
And  everybody  said,  "Poor  Nell!    Alas,  I  pity 

her!" 

A  modest,  unassuming  maid,  and  so  distinctly  shy 
That  if  you  said  a  word  to  her  she'd  look  at  you 

and  cry. 


They  married — John  Alexis,  who  had  always  had 

his  way — 
And  Nell,  who  never,  never,  never  had  a  word  to 

say; 
And  in  their  long  connubial  life — on  thirty  years 

it  borders — 
She  always  did,  she  always  does  exactly  as  he 

orders. 


The  Case  of  Sabrina  Simpson  Usch 

I'M  about  to  tell  the  story  of  Sabrina  Simpson 
Usch, 
Hearing  which  the  strictest  infant  wouldn't  even 

have  to  blush; 
For  I  always  make  my  stories  just  as  moral  as  I 

can — 

If  you  must   have   Mr.  Chambers,  read   The 
Cosmopolitan. 


All  her  life  Sabrina  Simpson  (she  is  only  twenty- 
one) 

Had  been  sheltered  from  the  figurative  rain  and 
frost  and  sun. 

As  a  student  she  was  slothful,  and  her  intellect 
was  small, 

Why,  the  veriest  freshman  used  to  say  she  had  no 
bean  at  all. 


Well,  Sabrina  married  Edgar  Allen  Kuppen- 
berger  Usch; 

He  was  invalid  and  wealthy,  and  was  cut  down  in 
the  flush; 

And  he  left  his  bride,  uncalloused  to  the  bludgeon- 
ings  of  Fate, 

Seven  hundred  thousand  dollars  and  a  lot  of  real 
estate. 

65 


Weights  and  Measures 

Then  the  gossips  got  together  and  they  said  she 
had  no  chance — 

She  without  the  slightest  grasp  of  any  problem  of 
finance! 

What  would  happen  to  that  money  if  Sabrina  had 
her  way, 

Those  who  knew  her  lack  of  reason  did  not  hesi 
tate  to  say. 


When  Sabrina  heard  the  prodigal  provisions  of  the 
will, 

She  had  something  of  a  tremour,  which  was  fol 
lowed  by  a  chill, 

And  she  said,  "  For  me  to  worry  is  a  curious  thing 
and  new, 

But  I  haven't  any  business  sense,  and  don't  know 
what  to  do." 


So  she  spent  the  splendid  fortune  and  she  sold 
the  real  estate, 

And  she  hasn't  seven  dollars  at  the  sadly  present 
date. 

Poor  Sabrina,  unendowed  with  any  great  intel 
ligence! 

Poor  Sabrina,  who  they  said  had  not  a  bit  of 
business  sense! 


66 


A  Parfit,  Gentil  Knight 

YESTEREVENING'S  shades  descending 
On — you've  guessed  it — yesterday 
Found  me,  as  the  bard  says,  wending 
Home  my  way. 

In  the  subway,  squeezed  and  lightsome, 

(This  is  not  to  be  a  rhyme 
Of  the  subway.    That  I'll  write  some 
Other  time.) 

In  the  subway  (O  my  brothers, 
What  a  subject  for  a  pome!) 
I  was — with  a  lot  of  others — 
Going  home. 

And  a  lady  stood  beside  me 

Fair  as  any  I  have  seen. 
She  was — yes,  whate'er  betide  me! — 
Quelque  -queen. 

Fair  as  lady  ever  sought  of 

Knight  of  a  forgotten  year. 
(I  immediately  thought  of 
Guinevere.) 

Fain  for  her  would  I  demand  some 

Boon    .    .    .    And  underneath  her  strap 
Sat  a  knightly  and  a  handsome- 
Looking  chap. 

67 


Weights  and  Measures 

Sturdy,  brave,  and  true — the  kind  of 

Man  who'd  fight,  and  falter  not. 
(Straightway  he  put  me  in  mind  of 
Launcelot.) 


"Now,"  methought  (my  thoughts  are  tender 

And  as  maple  sugar  sweet), 
"To  the  lady  he'll  surrender 
Up  his  seat." 

But  he  read  along  unheeding, 
Giving  Guinevere  no  look; 
And  he  kept  intently  reading 
In  his  book. 


And  I  looked,  the  title-page  of 
That  there  volume  for  to  see. 

It  was  Bulfmch's  "The  Age  of 
Chivalry." 


68 


American  Themes  for  a  Gilbert 

IR  WILLIAM  GILBERT,  master  of  the 

lightsome  and  the  lyrical. 
Employed  a  sharply  pointed  pen  and  eke  a  style 

satirical; 
A  pen  and  style  that  here  and  now  are  absolutely 

needed — 
Alas!  that  no  one  lives  to  write  the  kind  of  things 

that  he  did! 


"Yet  should  a  Gilbert  rise  again,  with  such  a  gift 
for  gayety, 

For  academic  merriment  applauded  by  the  laity, 

Where  are  the  targets  now  for  his  satirical  con 
fetti? 

What  themes,"  you  ask,  "are  worthy  of  Gilber- 
tian  libretti?" 


"What  could  he  find  to  write  of  in  these  U.  S.  of 

Ameriky? 
What  is  there  for  a  pen  so  sharply,  subtly  esoter- 

icky?" 
Alas!  there  are  a  thousand  themes,  you  undis- 

cerning  filbert, 
To  furnish  inspiration  to  a  man  like  William 

Gilbert! 

69 


Weights  and  Measures 

An  opera,  say,  replete  with  quip  and  crank  and 
quirk  and  quiddity 

On  presidential  calmness  and  Woodrovian  placid 
ity; 

On  Secretary  Daniels  and  the  varied  consequences 

Attendant  on  the  dearth  of  ships  and  similar 
defences. 


On  Taste  in  Music,  Letters,  Art;  on  War,  and  on 

Neutrality; 
On  men  and  women,  rich  and  poor,  in  this  and 

that  locality; 
And  then —  this  is  the  Big  Idea,  and  I  shall  now 

unloose  it — 
An  opera  on  the  Task  of  Finding  Some  One  to 

Produce  It. 


Lines  Written  in  a  City  Composing- 
Room 

WHEN  Thomas  Gray,  the  famous  bard, 
Wrote  that  which  made  him  noted, 
He  worked  egregiously  hard 

On  lines  that  might  be  quoted. 
For  seven  years,  through  woes  and  ills, 
His  Muse  was  exercising; 

But 

Who  paid  the  meat  and  grocery  bills 
While  Gray  was  elegizing? 

"No  slipshod  verses  shall  be  mine/' 

He'd  tell  the  impatient  printer. 
"I'll  write  it  out  upon  this  line 

If  it  consumes  all  winter!" 
And  so  he  wooed  the  elusive  Muse 

With  zeal  uncompromising — 

But 
Who  kept  the  little  Grays  in  shoes 

While  Gray  was  elegizing? 

We  modern  minnesingers  waste 

No  time,  no  midnight  taper; 
Our  lines  are  done  in  fevered  haste 

To  catch  the  waiting  paper. 
We  rush  the  rhymes  we  write  to-day 

Our  guerdon  overprizing — 

Still— 
Who  paid  the  rent  for  Mrs.  Gray 

While  Gray  was  elegizing? 


Alas! 

I  CAN  NOT  write  the  old  jokes, 
The  cranks  and  wanton  wiles, 
Because  I  can't  remember  'em, 
And  I  haven't  got  the  files. 


LINES    INSPIRED    BY    TRYING    TO    IMAGINE    WHAT 

A  MAGAZINE  ART  EDITOR  ORDERING  A  COVER 

TELLS  MR.   CLARENCE   F.    UNDERWOOD 

PICTURE  the  lady's  stocking; 
*       Be  sure  you  don't  forget 
The  dear  little  dimpled  darling 
Displaying  her  toes  et  cet. 


Hudson  River  Anthology 

BENJAMIN  J.  WHOOZ1SS 

IRAN  a  store; 
I  underpaid  my  help 
And  lied  about  the  goods  I  sold; 
Lied  in  advertisements  in  the  newspapers. 
Then  the  war  came. 
It  hurt  my  business, 
And  so  the  things  the  papers  said 
Hurt  my  investments. 
True  things  they  were,  those  journalistic  utter- 

ances, 

And  bravely  said. 

But  I  wrote  solemn  letters  to  the  papers, 
Signing  various  names; 
"All  I  want  is  Fair  Play,"  they  said. 
O.  Henry  could  have  made  a  yarn  of  that,  I 

think. 

JANITOR  CARL  CARLSEN 

T  WAS  a  petty  grafter 

*     But  given  so  to  whining 

The  tenants  in  the  apartment  house 

All  pitied  me  a  lot. 

An  inefficient  janitor 

Entitled  "superintendent"; 

I  was  a  shadow  boxer, 

And  the  landlord  thought  I  worked. 

Commissions  from  the  butcher, 

Commissions  from  the  newsman, 

Commissions  from  the  grocer, 

73 


Weights  and  Measures 

Amounted  up,  in  a  year. 
One  day,  in  greed  for  grafting, 
I  tried  to  make  the  milkman 
Give  me  a  larger  percentage — 
He  tried  to  shoot  me  dead. 
The  bullet  grazed  my  shoulder — 
The  milkman  was  convicted. 
He's  serving  thirty  years. 


74 


M' 


"Chacun  a  Son  Gout" 

AD  MAECENATEM 
Horace:  Book  I,  Ode  1 

"Maecenas  atavis,  edite  regibus" 

[  AECENAS  of  the  bluest  blood, 

My  guard  revered,  my  glory  noble, 
One  man  acquires  Olympic  mud 

Upon  his  racing  automob'le, 
And  winning  of  an  earthly  prize 
Exalts  him  to  the  well-known  skies. 


Another  finds  applause  is  sweet — 
The  praise  of  Rome,  as  loud  as  fickle; 

Another  takes  his  joy  in  wheat, 
In  watching  it  from  seed  to  sickle; 

And  in  his  granary  he  stores 

Sweepings  from  Libyan  threshing-floors. 


The  man  who  loves  to  plough  the  field 
Has  no  desire  to  plough  the  ocean; 

His  farm  delights  he  will  not  yield 
To  sailor  joys.     Perish  the  notion! 

The  trader  trembles  at  the  gale, 

Yet,  once  on  land,  longs  to  set  sail. 

71 


Weighis  and  Measures 

One  there  may  be  that  doth  recline 
Flushing  his  arid  pipe  thoracic 

With  beakers — ay,  with  bowls! — of  wine; 
The  brand?    The  best  domestic  Massic. 

Recline,  as  I  began  to  say, 

Beneath  a  tree  for  half  a  day. 


Some  love  the  wars  that  mothers  fear, 
The  toot  of  trump,  the  blare  of  bugle; 

Some  like  to  hunt  the  boar  or  deer, 
Unmindful  of  the  ties  con/wgal. 

For  me  nor  hunts  nor  war's  alarms; 

For  me  nor  motorcars  nor  farms. 


Ivy  for  me!    The  grove  for  mine! 

Where  nymphs  and  satyrs  hold  high  revel, 
Where  I  can  join  the  gods  divine, 

A  bit  above  the  lowbrow  level. 
And  if  you  say:    "Some  bard,  this  guy!" 
My  soaring  head  shall  touch  the  sky. 


The  Softness  of  Sybaris 

AD  LYDIAM 
Horace:  Book  I,  Ode  9 

"  Lydia,  die,  -per  omnes — " 

LYDIA,  by  the  gods  above, 
Tell  me  why  you  aim  your  love 
At  a  lad  whose  life  was  centred 
In  the  tournaments  he  entered. 


Now  he  never  rides  a  horse; 
Never  goes  around  the  course, 
Never  swims  the  Tiber  River — 
At  athletics  he's  a  flivver. 


Once  the  discus  he  would  throw; 

Quoits  he  played;  and,  long  ago, 

Cobb  was  not  a  better  batter. 

.    .    .    Tell  me,  Lydia,  what's  the  matter? 


77 


The  Cold  Wave  of  32  B.C. 

AD  THALIARCHUM 
Horace:  Book  I,  Ode  9 

"Vides,    ut    alia    stet    nivc    candidum" —     ; 

It  is  cold,  O  Thaliarchus,  and  Soracte's  crest  is 

white; 
There  is  skating  on  the  Tiber;  there  is  No  Relief 

in  Sight. 

Tell  the  janitor  the  radiator's  absolutely  cold.  .  . 
Let  us  crack  a  quart  of  Sabine;  I've  a  case  of 

four-year  old. 

Here's  to  Folly,  Thaliarchus !  Here  is  "  Banzai ! ", 
"Pros't!",  and  "How!" 

We  should  fret  about  the  future !  We  should  cor 
rugate  the  brow! 

Any  joy  is  so  much  velvet;  Age  impinges  soon 
enough. 

Why  resolve  to  can  the  frivol?  Why  decide  to 
chop  the  fluff? 


On  the  well-known   Campus   Martius,   as  the 

r    shade  of  night  descends, 

There  are  ladies  castlewalking  with  their  unpla- 

tonic  friends; 
Many  a  sweetly  smiling  damsel — need  I  fill  up 

further  space? 
Hurry,  O  my  Thaliarchus,  let  us  go  that  to  there 

place. 

73 


To  the  Ship  of  State 

AD  REMPUBLICAM 
Horace:  Book  I,  Ode  14 

"0  navis,  referent  in  mare  te  navi — " 

HE  WARE,  O  bark,  the  waves  that  wish  to 

*-*     tear  thee  from  these  shores; 

And  bravely  seek  the  harbor,  for  thy  sides  are 

reft  of  oars; 
See  how  thy  broken  mast  and  yards  are  groaning 

in  the  gale! 
Unsound,  alas!  thy  ropeless  hull!    Unsafe  thy 

shredded  sail! 


Thou  hast  no  gods  to  call  upon  when  Sable  Care 

is  thine; 
The  sailor  trusts  no  showy  sterns,  though  built  of 

Pontic  pine. 
O  ship  that  wert  my  woe,  that  art  my  love,  avoid 

the  seas 
And  shun  the  treacherous  waters  of  the  shining 

Cyclades. 


79 


On  the  Indestructibility  of  Reading 
Matter 

(To  Carolyn  Wells) 
Horace:  Book  I,  Ode  22 

"Integer  mtae,  scelerisque  purus — " 

A  LAD  whose  life  is  pure  and  clean — 
His  stuff  is  cosmic,  sempiternal; 
Whether  in  Harper's  Magazine 
Or  in  the  so-called  Evening  Journal. 


He  needs  no  24-point  blurb, 

His  verse  requires  no  Gothic  lo-point, 
For  folks  to  say,  "  Believe  me,  Herb, 

Some  ooze  comes  off  of  that  guy's  pen  point!" 


I  wrote  some  poetry  at  home — 
I  lived,  you  know,  at  Sabine  Junction — 

A  wolf  came  up  and  glimpsed  my  pome, 
And  slammed  the  door  with  vulpine  unction. 


A  big,  big,  big,  big  wolf  was  he: 
(And  if  you  crave  corroboration, 

Look  up  Ode  22  and  see 
The  difficulties  of  translation.) 
80 


On  ihe  Indestructibility  of  Reading  Matter 

Lived  I  where  Kipling  pens  his  rhymes, 
Or  where  Le  Gallienne  pens  his  stanzas; 

And  worked  I  for  the  London  Times, 
Or  for  a  sheet  in  Howell,  Kansas — 


Oh,  ship  me  to  some  desert  isle 
Or  leave  me  in  my  Conning  Tower, 

Still  shall  I  sing  my  Carrie's  smile 
And  love  its  cardiac  motive  power. 


81 


To  Chloe 

I 

Horace:  Book  I,  Ode  23 

"  Vitas  hinnuleo  me  similis,  Chloe  —  " 


,  regard  my  song  sententious 
And  trust  me  as  your  soul's  director: 
No  longer  be  a  conscientious 
Objector. 

No  lion,  I,  to  feast  upon 

You,  Chloe.     Do  not  be  so  distant. 
Forget  your  mother.    Be  a  non- 
Resistant. 


II 

me  not,  my  Chloe,  like  a  fawn  that 
seeks  its  mother, 
Frightened  of  the  forest,  overfearful  of  the 

trees, 

Tremulous  with  terror  it  is  difficult  to  smother, 
Quivering  at  the  rustle  of  the  brier  in  the 
breeze. 

Never  mine  the  cruel  wish  to  crush  you  like  a  lion, 

Never  mine  the  wish  to  be  a  tiger  in  a  rage. 

Cut  away  from  mother!    Give  your  bridal-gown 

a  try  on ! 

Votes    for  women,    Chloe!    And   remember, 
you're  of  age. 

82 


To  His  Lyre 


AD   LYRAM 
Horace:  Book  I,  Ode  32 

"  Poscimur.    Si  quid  vacui  sub  umbra — " 

IF  EVER,  as  I  struck  thy  strings, 
I've  sounded  one  enduring  note, 
Let  me,  O  Lyre,  think  up  some  things 
That  folks  will  simply  have  to  quote. 


A  Lesbian  lyrist  owned  thee  once; 

He  used  to  sing  a  lot,  he  did, 
Of  dames  and  demijohns  and  stunts 

Like  that.     He  was  the  Tuneful  Kid. 


Help  me,  mine  ancient  ukulele, 
Sing  songs  of  sorrow  and  of  joy, 

Such  as,  composed  and  printed  daily, 
Will  make  the  public  yell,  "Oh,  boy  I" 


"Persicos  Odi" 

I 

Horace:  Book  I,  Ode  38 

"Persicos  odi,  puer  apparatus — " 

OH,  BOY! — to  quote  a  slangy  line — 
This  war-stock  thing  is  wrong. 
No  Persian  Copper  shares  for  mine — 
They  cramp  a  poet's  song, 


The  market  I  shall  never  dent 
With  International  Tree. 

I'll  take  my  little  four  per  cent. — 
The  savings  bank  for  me. 


II 

R  me  no  high-powered  touring  car,  no  lac- 
quered  limousine; 
No  Persian  carburetor,  and  no  perfumed  gasolene; 
As  my  chauffeur  I  know  you  hate  unneceessary 

fuss — 
A  little  flivver  runabout  is  good  enough  for  us. 


Playing  It  Safe 

AD  LICINIUM 
Horace:  Book  II,  Ode  10 

"Rectius  vives,  Licini,  neque  altum — " 

SAIL  not  too  far  to  be  safe,  O  Licinius! 
Neither  too  close  to  the  shore  should  you 

steer 

Rashness  is  foolish,  and  how  ignominious 
Cowardly  fear! 


He  who  possesses  nor  palace  nor  hovel 

(My  little  flat  would  be  half  way  between) 

Hasn't  a  house  at  which  paupers  must  grovel 

Yet  it  is  clean. 


Shaken  by  winds  is  the  pine  that  is  tallest; 

Ever  the  summit  is  bared  to  the  flash; 
The  bigger  thou  art,  so  the  harder  thou  fallest- 
Cracketty  crash! 


He  who  in  famine  can  hope  for  the  manna, 

He  who  in  plenty  fears  poverty's  chafe — 
He  is  the  proper,  the  true  Pollyanna, 
Playing  it  safe. 

85 


Weights  and  Measures 

Jupiter,  bringing  the  bleak,  bitter,  raw  gust 

Also  remembers  to  take  it  away; 
He  is  the  god  of  December   .    .    .   but  August — 
April    .    .    .    but  May 


When  you  have  creditors  suing  to  pay  them 

Four-to-an-ace  is  the  way  to  invest; 
But  when  you  win  every  pot,  you  should  play 
them 

Close  to  your  chest. 


86 


As  the  New  Year  [18  B.C.]  Dawned 

AD  POSTUMUM 
Horaces  Book  II,  Ode  14 

"  Eheu  !  Jugaces,  Postume,  Postume — " 

OPOSTUMUS,  alas!    I   hear  the  bells  go 
tinkle-tinkle! 

Zip!  goes  another  flitting  year!  here  comes  an 
other  wrinkle! 
And  though  I  hate  to  hang  the  crape— no  skill 

and  no  endurance 

Can  keep  your  folks  from  putting  in  a  claim  for 
your  insurance. 


If  daily  you  endow  a  school  and  forty-two 
Foundations 

Would  that  put  off  a  single  day  your  last  disinte 
grations? 

No!  What  though  you  be  prince  or  prune,  a 
slacker  or  a  hero, 

The  sum  of  all  your  wealth  and  woes  is  ultimately 
zero. 


Some  day  you'll  bid  your  wife  good-bye,  and — 

this  no  prognosis — 

That  afternoon  they'll  say  it  was  arterio-sclerosis; 
And  in  a  year,  or  maybe  less,  a  man  of  greater 

merit 
Shall  spill  upon  your  marble  floors  the  wine  he  will 

inherit. 


The  Good  Old  Days  of  27  B.C.; 

AD  ROMANOS 
Horace:  Book  III.  Ode  6 

"Delicta  maiorum  immeritas  lues — " 

FOR  sins  ancestral,  O  thou  guiltless  Roman, 
thou  shalt  suffer 

Till  thou  restore  the  temples  that  are  crum 
bling,  and  the  shrines; 
The  statues  that  are  smoky  go  and  polish  with  a 

buffer! 
Go  scour  the  sooty  sculpture  till  it  shines! 


It  is  by  service  to  the  gods  alone  that   thou 

prevailest; 

With  them  beginneth  everything;  to  them  en 
trust  the  end! 
Observe  what  woes  to  Italy,  once  the  heartiest 

and  the  halest, 
The  gods  have  sent — continue  still  to  send. 


Monaeses  and  the  Pacoran  have  beaten  us  in 

battle- 
To  them  the  spoil  of  Rome  upon  their  neck 
laces  is  sweet — 

And  worried  now  with  politics  and  civil  tittle- 
tattle, 

We  fear  the  foreign  soldiery  and  fleet. 
88 


The  Good  Old  Days  of  27  B.C. 

Our  times  are  overtroublous;  there  are  scandals 

and  divorces; 
We  tremble  for  the  children  and  we  fret  about 

the  Home; 
The  River  of  Disaster,  overflowing  from  these 

sources, 
Is  threatening  the  government  of  Rome. 

The  Roman  flapper  joys  in  doing  wild,  Hellenic 

dances, 
She  calsomines  her  features  and  she  rouges  up 

her  lips; 
The  married  woman   yearns  for  unconnubial 

romances — 
She's  naughty  to  her  tender  finger-tips. 

Not  such  the  sires  of  Roman  youth,  who  rising 

in  their  glory, 
Put  Hannibal,  Antiochus,  and  Pyrrhus  off  the 

map. 
Gone  are  the  peasant  warriors  and  their  brave, 

bucolic  story! 
Return  again,  O  simple  Sabine  yap! 

O  Time,  is  naught  secure  from  thy  malign  disinte 
gration? 
Our  parents'   days  our   grandsires   and  our 

granddams  used  to  curse. 
Compare  us  with  our  parents — ponder  our  de 
generation! 
And  gosh!  our  kids  are  getting  even  worse! 

89 


An  Invitation  to  a  Drinkfest 

AD  TELEPHUM 
Horace:  Book  III,  Ode  19 

"Quantum  distet  ab  Inacho — " 

YOU  tell  when  Inachus  was  born; 
You  say  when  Codrus  was  a  boy; 
Of  /Eacus  you  sing,  nor  scorn 
To  tell  about  the  wars  of  Troy. 

i 

But  what's  the  cost  of  Chian  wine? 

Who'll  heat  the  water  for  my  dip? 
Under  whose  roof  do  I  recline? 

When  shall  I  lose  this  case  of  grippe? 

A  drink!    Three  cyatbi  (or  nine)! 

Hurry,  my  boy,  and  bring  it  soon! 
We'll  toast  (I  like  the  following  line) 

Murena,  midnight,  and  the  moon. 

To  revel  now  is  my  desire; 

I'll  take  my  joyance  in  a  jag. 
Why  mute  the  pipe  and  hush  the  lyre? 

Come,  play  that  Berecyntian  Rag! 

I  hate  the  hands  that  hang  the  crape! 

For  me  the  souls  that  hang  expense! 
Fling  flowers  around!     Uncork  the  grape, 

And  laugh  at  Lycus's  laments! 
90 


An  Invitation  to  a  Drinkfest 

To  you  the  radiant  Rhode  turns; 

(Your  hair  has  witched  that  lovely  gell) 
My  lingering  love  for  Glycera  burns — 

My  Glycera    .    .    .    You  know  me,  Tel. 


When  Q.  H.  F.  Sang  "Good  by, 
Girls  " 

AD  VENEREM 
Horace:  Book  III,  Ode  26 

"  Vixi  puellis  nuper  idoneus — " 

1  US  ED  to  be  one  who  was  frantic  for  fun; 
Than  I  there  was  no  one  insaner. 
I  used  to  be  keen  for  a  call  on  a  queen.    .    . 
A  hardy  campaigner. 


No  more  shall  I  fall!     I  shall  hang  on  this  wall 

My  lute  and  my  weapons  of  warfare; 

To  Venus  I  bow  as  these  offerings  I  vow. 

Is  anything  more  fair? 


O  goddess,  one  favour  I  seek  as  I  pray — 

No  boon  ostentatious  or  showy — 
Just  once,  for  my  sake,  O  I  beg  of  thee,  take 
A  wallop  at  Chloe. 


Q2 


On  the  Ephemeralness  of  Beauty 

Horace:  Book  IV,  Ode  10 

O  crudelis  adbuc  et  Veneris  muneribus  potens — " 

O  CRUEL  thou,  while  yet  the  best 
Is  thine  of  Beauty's  fair  bequest, 
When  that  thy  pride  shall  have  a  fall, 
Thy  locks  decrease  to  none  at  all; 
When  pale  hath  grown  thy  rosy  cheek, 
And  dull  become  thy  glance,  and  weak — 
Whene'er  thou  gazest  in  the  glass, 
Then  shalt  thou,  sighing,  say:    "Alas! 
Why,  when  my  heart  was  young  and  gay 
Lacked  I  the  wisdom  of  to-day? 
Or,  now  that  faltering  is  my  step, 
Why  have  I  lost  my  pristine  pep?" 


93 


,The  Bard's  Excuse 

AD  MAECENATEM 
Horace:  Epode  XIV 

"Mollis   inertia   cur  tanlam  diffuderit   imis — " 

MAECENAS,  you  wonder  what  spell  I  am 
under 

And  why  I  continue  to  stall; 
You  cannot  help  thinking  that   I   have  been 
drinking — 

I  haven't  at  all. 


My  verses  are  thinnish?    1  simply  can't  finish 

The  creaking  iambics  I  start    .    .    . 
The  god's  interference  has  caused  my  arrear- 
ance — 

(The  god  of  the  heart.) 


Bathyllus  of  Samos  excited  the  famous  ' 

Anacreon,  maker  of  rhymes; 
Why,  you  took  a  trip  in  your  car  with  a  pippin 
A  couple  of  times. 


And  so  my  cessation  from  versification, 

For  Phryne's  the  girl  1  adore. 
(In  which  I  have  plenty  of  company — twenty 
Or  twenty-one  more) 

94 


To  Furius,  on  Poverty 

Catullus:  Ode  23 

"  Furi,  quoi  neque  servus  est,  neque  area — " 

ClNANCIAL  troubles  irk  thee  not; 
*       No  servants  test  thy  strong  endurance; 
No  germs  infest  thy  simple  cot; 
Thou  hast  no  need  for  fire  insurance. 


How  happy,  Furius,  is  thy  life 
Shared  with  thine  estimable  Popper 

And  his — excuse  me — wooden  wife! 

(I  think  those  birds  could  lunch  on  copper!) 


In  utter  health  how  happy  thou, 
Fearing  nor  fire  nor  indigestion! 

No  fall  in  stocks  can  blanch  thy  brow 
Serene  beyond  all  doubt  or  question. 


Hay  fever,  rheumatiz,  the  grip, 
Malaria,  gout,  and  such  diseases 

Elude  thy  frugal  guardianship — 
Both  when  it's  hot  and  when  it  freezes. 


Cease  then  to  pray  the  gods  for  wealth 
Not  worth  the  pains  to  have  amassed  it! 

I  wonder  if,  with  naught  but  health 
Thou  knowest  just  how  soft  thou  hast  it? 

95 


Farewell  to  Cynthia 

Propertius:  Book  I,  Elegy  8 

"Tune  igitur  demens,  nee  tea  me  cur  a  moratur?' 

ARE  you  bewitched?    Or  don't  you  care 
To  stay  where  I  may  linger  near  ye? 
Am  I  less  welcome  than  the  air 
Of  chill  Illyria? 


O  Cynthia,  are  you  then  so  keen 

For  him*  that  you  prefer  the  slow  life 
Of  shipboard?    (*You  know  whom  I  mean — 
The  lying  lowlife!) 


Can  you  endure  the  wintry  snows, 

The  ship's  hard  couch,  and  kindred  trouble? 
I'd  like  to  have  each  storm  that  blows 
In  fury  double! 


For  then  you'd  have  to  stay,  my  pet; 

No  ship  could  loose  the  straining  tether. 
Yet — if  you  go,  I  hope  you'll  get 
Some  dreadful  weather. 


I  shall  be  standing  at  the  pier, 

The  gentle  author  of  these  verses, 
Shaking  my  fists  at  you,  my  dear, 
And  cussing  curses. 

96 


Farewell  to  Cynthia 

Yet,  most  perfidious,  most  untrue, 

You  coyest  of  this  flirty,  coy  age, 
I  hope  you'll  have — I  truly  do — 
A  lovely  voyage. 


And  I  shall  ask  of  every  tar 

Where  any  one  has  seen  or  met  you; 
North,  East — I  don't  care  where  you  are — 
Some  day  I'll  get  you! 


The  Nuances  of  Mendacity 

NO   MASTER   in   mendaciousness,    no  keen 
deceiver  I; 

I  never  know  when  any  one  is  telling  me  a  lie; 
The  clumsiest  of  untruthful  men   I   never  can 

suspect, 

And  flaws  in  simple  honesty  are  things  I  don't 
detect. 


When  someone  says:    "I'll  pay  it  back  in  just  a 

day  or  two." 

I  never  get  the  notion  it's  a  thing  he  will  not  do; 
And  when  a  reader  tells  me  she  is  Mad  about  My 

Stuff, 
I  take  her  word  as  gospel,  never  knowing  it  is  guff. 


But  though  I  may  be  credulous  and  easy  and 

unwise, 

I  know  the  utterest  untruth,  the  leader  of  the  lies; 
I  know  a  man  is  lying,  when,  considerably  cut, 
He  says:    "I  like  a  joke  as  well  as  anybody, 

but " 


Vers  Libre 

DRINK  to  me  with  thine  eyes,  exclusively, 
And  I  will  pledge  with  mine; 
Or  leave  a  kiss  but  in  the  cup, 
And  I  shall  not  order  any  wines  or  liquors. 
Soul-thirst 

Demands  divine  drink; 
Yet,  even  to  Jovian  nectar, 
I  prefer  thine. 


Recently  I  sent  thee  a  wreath,  a  wreath  of  roses, 

Not  honouring  thee,  particularly — 

Rather  giving  it  a  hope  of 

Immortality. 

But  thou  merely  breathedst  on  it 

And  returnedst  it  to  me, 

Since  when  it  grows,  and  is  redolent,  I  swear, 

Not  of  itself.     .     .     . 

Nay!     Its  fragrance  is  of  thee. 

*  *    *    * 

John  Spratt  detested  carbohydrates. 
The  deglutition  of  proteins,  to  his  wife, 
Was  intolerable. 
Wherefore,  cooperating, 
There  was  no  waste 
Of  provender. 

*  *    *    • 

99 


Weighis  and  Measures 

Twinkle,  starlet, 

Loftily,  suptamundanely,  diamondly. 


Little  Miss  MufTet  sat  in  a  corner, 

Absorbing  casein — 

A  food  of  great  nutritive  power, 

Rich  in  butter  fats. 

A  spider — an  arachnid  of  the  species 

Araneidae — came  along; 

Ugly,  motive,  horrendous, 

Terrorizing  her  to  the  point  of  departure. 


100 


To  a  Young  Man  on  the  Platform 
of  a  Subway  Express 

BLITHE,    whistling   lad    who    yesterevening 
stood 

Behind  me  on  the  Broadway  subway's  plat 
form, 

Your  disposition  may  be  bad  or  good, 
Your  will  to  pleasure  may  take  this  or  that 

form. 

You  whistled,  I  believe,  "Poor  Butterfly/' 
(I've  heard  the  tune,  and  once  you  seemed  to 

strike  it) 

Pray  be  not  angry  when  I  say  that  I 
Don't  like  it. 


I  do  not  mind  your  piping  off  the  key — 
I  sometimes  err  myself  in  that  direction — 

But  when  you  whistle  right  in  back  of  me, 
I  claim  the  right  to  offer  mild  objection: 

Whistle  whate'er  you  will,  sans  let  or  check, 
To  those  who  nightly  pay  the  Shontsian  nickels, 

But  do  it  elsewhere,  please,  than  down  my  neck. 
.     .         It  tickles. 


101 


.  :.    Careless  Lines  on  Labour 

I 


O 


YE  that  He  on  the  sandy  beach, 
With  nothing  whatever  to  do, 
Beyond  the  beckoning,  grasping  reach 
Of  the  city  and  all  its  crew — 


II 


There  are  pleasanter  things  in  summertime 
Than  to  coax  the  bashful  laugh, 

Than  to  build  the  lofty  and  careful  rhyme, 
And  to  prune  a  paragraph. 


Ill 

There  are  pleasanter  things  to  do  at  night 

Alluringer  things  by  day, 
Than  to  seek  a  subject  on  which  to  write 

A  merrily  mirthsome  lay. 


IV 

And  so  when  it  squeaks  as  I  strike  the  strings, 

And  I  long  to  be  labour-free, 
I  just  go  and  do  those  pleasanter  things 

I  spoke  of  in  II  and  III. 


102 


Halving  It  With  Wither 

IF  SHE  be  not  fair  to  me, 
What  care  I  how  fair  she  be? 
Still,  if  she  be  fair,  why  then 
That  is  something  else  again. 


103 


Ballade  of  a  Traveller's  Jinx 

OVER  the  country,  from  coast  to  coast, 
I've  travelled  considerable,  more  or  less; 
I've  been  to  Canarsie  and  Painted  Post, 
I've  been  to  St.  Louis  and  Holderness. 
But  withersoever  I  may  progress. 
With  baggage  enough  for  a  fortnight's  stay, 
I  find,  with  a  sorrow  I  can't  repress, 
Mine  is  the  trunk  that  goes  astray. 


I  never — no,  never  ! — was  one  to  boast ; 
Though  me  the  Graces  have  seemed  to  bless 
With  this  honour,  a  greater  than  comes  to  most, 
I  bear  it  meekly,  without  duress. 
Of  other  affairs  I  make  no  mess; 
I'm  lucky  at  every  game  I  play; 
Yet,  packed  with  what  clothing  I  may  possess, 
Mine  is  the  trunk  that  goes  astray. 


Others  who  travel  comprise  a  host 
Carrying  a  million  trunks,  I  guess; 
But  never  the  shadow,  hint,  or  ghost 
Of  a  chance  one  goes  to  the  wrong  address. 
But  my  trunk  travels  the  whole  U.  S. — 
Or,  as  some  might  put  it,  the  U.  S.  A. — 
You  ask  me  does  it  miscarry?    YES! 
Mine  is  the  trunk  that  goes  astray. 
104 


Ballade  of  a  Traveller's  Jinx 


L  ENVOI 


Prince,  it  worries  me,  I  confess, 
Every  time  that  I  go  away. 
And  this  is  my  major  and  one  distress: 
Mine  is  the  trunk  that  goes  astray. 


105 


Underneath  the  Bough  j 

WHEN  Omar  smote  his  bloomin'  lyre 
About  his  quadruple  desire, 
There  was  no  daily  growing  yell 
About  the  rising  c.  of  1. 


A  Loaf  of  Bread  is  costly  now; 
A  Jug  of  Wine  is  high — and  Thou! 
Oh,  girl !  the  never-ending  payment 
For  all  thy  provender  and  raiment ! 


Pity  the  bard  who  pays  the  bill 
For  Bread  and  Wine  and  Lady  Jill. 
For  stationary  stays — ah,  curses! 
The  royalty  on  a  Book  of  Verses. 


Frequently 

I  SHOT  a  poem  into  the  air, 
It  was  reprinted  everywhere 
From  Bangor  to  the  Rocky  Range — 
And  always  credited  to 

—Exchange. 


106 


The  Flatterers 

WHEN  some  folks  meet  a  colyuming  man, 
They  .have  thedelightfullestway  to  flatter; 
And  this  is  about  the  general  plan 
Of  the  smilingly  pleasant  school  of  patter. 

"  Do  you  know,  I  know  a  couple  of  guys 
Who  prefer  your  pomes  to  the  five-foot  shelf?  " 

(As  one  who,  merry  and  bright,  implies: 
"I  never  could  see  the  stuff,  myself.") 


"My  boy — he's  still  in  his  early  teens — 
He  reads  your  things,  whether  short  or  long, 

From  beginning  to  end."     (As  one  who  means: 
"The  little  chap  never  was  very  strong.") 


"A  friend  of  mine  reads  you  every  day — 
Hasn't  missed  a  column  in  over  a  year; 

You  mightn't  believe  it "  (As  who  should  say ; 

"The  feller  was  always  a  little  queer.") 


To  the  Vers  Librist  Who  Uses 
Only  the  Minor  Key: 

TELL  me  not,  O  mournful  poet, 
Life  is  but  an  empty  dream. 
Well  enough,  alas!   I  know  it, 
And  I'm  weary  of  the  theme. 
107 


Eheu,  Fugaces! 


LINES  WRITTEN    AFTER    DR.    DALY  S   SONG    IN 
"THE  SORCERER,"  AND  AFTER  RECEIVING 
CONSTABULARY   REPRIMAND  FOR  VIO 
LATING  A  TRAFFIC  ORDINANCE. 

TIME  was  when  Sleep  and  I  were  well  ac 
quainted, 

Time  was  when  we  walked  ever  hand  in  hand — 
A  slumbrous  youth,  with  nervousness  untainted, 

No  sleepier  soul  than  I  in  all  the  land. 
Time  was  when  things  like  traffic  regulations 

Impressed  me  but  as  made  for  other  men; 

I  never  thought  a  thing  of  cells  and  stations — 

Ah  me!     I* was  a  fair  young  cyclist  then! 


Talked  one  of  cars,  I  paid  but  scant  attention; 

Spoke  one  of  gasolene,  I  gave  no  heed; 
Magnetos  were  a  thing  I'd  never  mention; 

And  motor  catalogues  I  would  not  read. 
Time  was  when  all  my  woes  were  paragraphic; 

Time  was  when  all  my  work  was  with  a  pen; 
I  used  to  have  no  trouble  with  the  traffic — 

Ah  me!    I  was  a  fair  young  cyclist  then! 


'108 


The  Bard's  Annual  Defiance 

BRING  on  the  spring — I  am  wearied 
of  winter; 
Come,  O  you  summer — I  sicken  of 

cold. 

Set  up  my  metrical  matter,  O  printer! 
(Century   10-point,  or  Cheltenham 
bold.) 


Yearn  I  diurnally  now  for  the  gentle 
Ray  of  the  May-day's  inspiriting  sun; 

Long  I  for  song  and  the  sweet  senti 
mental 
Talk  as  I  walk  with  a  Definite  One. 


Go  away,  snow,  I  am  wearied,  I  tell 

you — 
111  of  the  chill  that  has  tarried  too 

long! 
Sprint  away,  winter,  I  long  to  farewell 

you — 

Hey!  for  the  May  and  the  season  of 
song! 

109 


Weights  and  Measures 

Down  with  a  town  that  is  windy  and 

sloppy! 
Up  with  the  cup  that  is  symbol  of 

spring! 

Ho !  for  the  poems  we  writers  of  copy 
Make  for  the  sake  of  the  sound  of  the 
thing! 


no 


The  Western  Journalist 

riS  was  the  burden  of  bis  song — 
The  Western  -pamphleteer — 
"  Fresh  air  does  not  a  living  make, 
Nor  climate  a  career." 

"It's  a  wonderful  town,"  said  the  newspaper 

man  in  Kansas  City,  Mo., 
"My  job  is  rather  an  easy  one — as  jobs  on  a 

paper  go. 
The  boys  out  here  are  a  lively  crowd,  our  sheet  is 

there  with  a  punch; 
My  house  is  only  a  mile  from  the  shop  and  I 

always  go  home  for  lunch. 
I've  grown  attached  to  the  breezy  town" — and 

he  took  me  by  the  sleeve 
And  added:    "Yes,  I'm  fond  of  the  place,  and  I'd 

certainly  hate  to  leave. 
I  never  can  like  a  town  so  well  as  Kansas  City, 

Mo. 
Good  by    ...    If  you  hear  of  a  job  in  New 

York,  will  you  promise  to  let  me  know?" 

"  I  knew  you'd  like  our  beautiful  town,"  said  the 

Denver  reporting  guy. 
"  It's  sunny  every  day  in  the  year,  and  the  city's 

a  whole  mile  high. 
Our  death  rate  now  is  the  lowest  ever  known  in 

this  part  of  the  West; 
Our  system  of  parks  is  perfect — it  is  known  as  the 

nation's  best. 

in 


WeigHs  and  Measures 

The  melons  we  get  in  the  summer — well,  you 

ought  to  be  here  in  May — 
Are  better,  I  guess,  than  you'll  ever  see  on  Wall 

Street  or  on  Broadway. 
No,  it  isn't  much  of  a  newspaper  town — that  is 

its  one  defect. 
Good  by    ...    If  you  hear  of  a  job  in  New 

York,  just  wire  me  at  once,  collect." 


"Some  town  is  right,"  said  the  genial,  able, 

earnest  slave  of  the  pen. 
"It's  a  wonderful  place  to  live,  all  right" — he 

was  talking  about  Cheyenne. 
"I've  learned  a  lot  since  I've  been  out  here; 

Wyoming's  a  wonderful  state. 
The  air,  the  ranches,  the  mountains,  the  folks — 

the  whole  darned  thing  is  great. 
I  doubt  if  I'd  like  it  anywhere  else;  it  grows  on  a 

man  out  here; 
We've  sunshine  practically  every  day  in  the 

pleasant  time  of  the  year. 
But  the  newspaper  game  is  pretty  dead,  and  I 

wouldn't,  of  course,  decline 
A  job  in  New  York.    If  you  hear  of  one,  I  wish 

you'd  drop  me  a  line." 

"  Los  Angeles  is  a  lovely  town,"  said  a  journalistic 
youth. 

"The  stories  about  the  climate  here  don't  ap 
proximate  half  the  truth. 
112 


The  Western  Journalist 

It's  a  wonderful  place  to  live  in,  but  the  newspaper 

game  is  slow; 
So  if  you  hear  of  a  job  down  East,  will  you  promise 

to  Itet  me  know?" 


"The  liveliest  town  in  the  country,  this,"  said  the 

San  Francisco  lad. 
"The  papers  here  are  a  prosperous  lot,  but  the 

pay  is  pretty  bad. 
I'd  like  a  whack  at  the  New  York  game,  for  a 

couple  of  years,  at  least; 
Just  let  me  know,  when  you  get  back  home,  if 

you  hear  of  a  job  down  East." 


Thus  ran  the  burden  of  his  song — 
The  Western  pamphleteer — 
"Fresh  air  does  not  a  living  make, 
Nor  climate  a  career." 


Ballade  of  Egregiousness 

I  TRAVELLED  now  from  coast  to  coast — 
I  came  back  only  yesterday — 
I've  been  from  Banff  to  Painted  Post 
From  Harrisburgh  to  Monterey, 
From  Cedarhurst  to  San  Jose, 
From  Santa  Cruz  to  Valley  Forge — 
And  yet,  on  all  my  witless  way, 
I  never  called  a  waiter  "George." 


I  toured  the  country,  same  as  most 
Who  pilgrimage  in  quest  of  play. 
I  paid  two  bits  for  buttered  toast, 
And  ninety  cents  for  peche  gelee. 
I  was  a  hick,  the  same  as  they 
Who  come  from  Huntington*  or  Norge  f; 
But  though  I  seemed  replete  with  hay, 
I  never  called  a  waiter  "George." 


I  never  was  a  bard  to  boast, 
I  never  was  a  lad  to  bray; 
But  do  I  not  deserve  a  "Pros't!", 
A  cross,  a  wreath  of  laurel-spray, 
For  that,  in  diner  and  cafe*, 
At  jitney  meal,  Lucullan  org- 
Y,  dinner,  luncheon,  dejeuner, 
I  never  called  a  waiter  "George"? 


•Ind. 
tOkla. 


114 


Ballade  of  Egregiousness 
L'  ENVOI 

Cast  me,  O  Prince,  in  Hudson  Bay, 
Shoot  me  across  the  Royal  Gorge, 
But  O  remember,  ere  you  slay, 
I  never  called  a  waiter  "George." 


To  the  Returned  Girls 

WILL  you  read  my  little  pome, 
O  you  girls  returned  home 
From  a  summertime  of  sport 
At  the  J oiliest  Resort, 
From  a  Heated  Term  of  joys 
Far  from  urban  dust  and  noise? 


You  I  speak  to  in  this  rhyme, 
You  have  had  a  Glorious  Time 
Swimming,  golfing,  bridging,  dancing, 
Riding,  tennising,  romancing, 
On  the  springboard,  on  the  raft — 
You've  been  often  photographed. 


At  the  place  you  have  forsaken, 
You  have  had  some  pictures  taken, 
Pictures  taken  of  you  dancing, 
Riding,  tennising,  romancing, 
Swimming,  golfing,  and  reclining; 
Snacking,  luncheoning,  and  dining. 


Cometh  now  my  brief  advice; 
Ladies,  be  ye  ne'er  so  nice, 
Be  ye  ne'er  so  fascinating, 
Luring,  drawing,  captivating, 
If  with  interest  you'd  imbue  us, 
Do  not  show  those  pictures  to  us! 
116 


To  the  Returned  Girls 

Snapshots  of  the  links  and  lawn 
Cause  in  many  of  us  a  yawn; 
(As  for  me  myself,  why,  I'm 
Glad  to  see  'em  any  time) 
But — I  give  it  to  you  square — 
Lots  of  people  do  not  care. 


117 


The  Boundaries  of  Appreciation 

WHEN  someone  pulls  a  droll  idea, 
When  someone  thrusts  a  jocund  jab, 
I  laugh  right  out.    You  can't  call  me  a 
Crab. 


The  dollars  that  I  spend  are  many 

To  get  a  little  bit  of  fun; 
I  like  a  joke  as  well  as  any 
One. 

I  never  elevate  mine  eyebrow 

At  what  another  thinks  is  rough; 
I  do  not  have  to  have  the  highbrow 
Stuff. 

Yet  nothing  keeps  my  heart  from  sinking — 

Alas!  how  then  my  spirits  droop — 
At  jokes  about  the  noise  of  drinking 
Soup. 

And  though  I  have  a  quenchless  yearning 

For  any  quip  or  crank  or  wheeze, 
I  cannot  smile  at  jokes  concerning 
Cheese. 

I  used  to  blame  this  lovely  climate; 

But  deep  deliberation  shows 
Me  why  I  have  so  sad  a  time  at 
Shows. 


Efficiency 

I 

R  one  who  is  volitient 
That  matters  move  along, 
It's  fine  to  be  efficient 
In  labour  or  in  song. 


II 

Avoid  all  kinds  of  effort, 
Shun  every  stress  and  strain. 

Don't  put  a  needless  burden 
Upon  your  heart  and  brain. 


Ill 

Now,  in  the  opening  stanza 
Which  started  rather  fine, 

I  made  the  rhymes  alternate — 
Or  every  other  line. 


IV 

("Which  started"  is  a  mouthful 

And  difficult  to  say. 
I  might  have  made  it  smoother 

By  working  half  a  day.) 
119 


Weights  and  Measures 


(Nor  is  the  word  alTERnate; 

I  find,  when  I  consult 
The  dictionary,  accent 

Is  on  th'  antepenult). 


VI 

But  if  I  stopped  to  bother 
With  little  things  like  this, 

The  wear  upon  my  engine 
Would  make  it  skip,  or  miss. 


VII 

They  tell  me  that  the  "Elegy" 
Composed  by  Thomas  Gray 

Took  seven  years  to  finish, 
At  seven  hours  a  day. 


VIII 

How  absolutely  sinful 

To  waste  that  precious  time 
In  polishing  and  pruning 

The  roughnesses  of  rhyme! 
1 20 


Efficiency 

IX 

At  eight  nineteen  this  evening 
As  true  as  I'm  alive, 

I  wrote  that  opening  stanza— 
Now  it's  eight  twenty-five. 


Efficiency!    That  does  it! 

Efficiency's  the  word! 
It  makes  you  feel  that  labour 

Is  utterly  absurd. 


XI 

Observe  the  Roman  numerals; 

Although  they  are  no  use, 
I  find  them,  altogether, 

Efficient  as  the  deuce. 


XII 

Observe  the  9-point  Old  Style— 
A  clear  and  lovely  face. 

I  find  it  efficacious 
Annihilating  space. 

121 


Weights  and  Measures 

XIII 

I  point  with  prideful  finger 
To  this  efficient  rhyme  4 

Composed  with  hardly  any 
Expenditure  of  time.  - 


XIV 

Composed  with  absolutely 
No  waste  of  heart  or  brain, 

No  prodigal  rhythmatics, 
No  lyric  legerdemain. 


XV 

Having  conserved  my  forces, 
And  husbanded  my  art, 

I'm  just  as  fresh  this  minute 
As  I  was  at  the  start. 


XVI 

I  waste  no  "punch,"  no  climax, 

For  it  would  be  a  crime 
To  put  a  timely  wallop 

In  an  efficient  rhyme. 
122 


Efficiency 

XVII 

Here's  my  efficient  poem. 

You  think  it's  bad?    You  do? 
Like  most  efficient  persons, 

I  never  thought  of  you. 


123 


Footlight  Motifs 

I 

MRS.  VERNON  CASTLE 

THE  fair  and  utter  grace  of  you, 
The  witchery  of  your  glance, 
The  young,  the  lovely  face  of  you, 
Delight  me  when  you  dance. 


The  lithe  and  supple  charms  of  you, 

Softer  than  melted  air, 
The  rippling,  billowing  arms  of  you — 

O  Lady,  you  are  there! 


Or  that  I  end  this  lay  of  you, 
Fain  would  I  ask  one  thing: 

I  love  most  every  way  of  you, 
But—Lady,  must  you  sing? 


II 

PHOEBE  FOSTER 

T  SIGHED  for  themes  to  write  on; 
*    A  subject  for  my  pen 
To  work  its  matchless  might  on — 
Worthy  my  skill — and  then — 

124 


FootligU  Motifs 

A  maid  hight  Phoebe  Foster 
Swam— dove— into  my  ken. 
I  gazed  and  gazed  and  sighed,  amazed; 
"Oh  for  a  worthy  pen!" 


Ill 

GABY  DESLYS 

THY  voice  hath  naught  of  the  Lorelei  lure 
To  hold  men  in  its  thrall; 
Of  pitch  and  key  thou  art  oft  not  sure 
At  all. 

Thy  form  and  features,  thy  teeth  and  hair 
To  others  may  seem  a  feast. 
I  know  of  a  thousand  maids  as  fair, 
At  least. 

Of  piquant  ways  and  I-don't-know-what, 
Of  merriment,  art,  and  wit, 
It  seemeth  to  me  that  thou  hast  not 
A  bit. 

I  never  was  one  to  raise  my  brow, 

I  never  was  one  to  scoff; 

But  I  simply  can't  see,  my  dear,  where  thou 

Get'st  off. 

125 


Weights  and  Measures 
IV 

NATALIE  ALT 

(~*  ENTLE,  modest  little  flower," 
^-*     (Gilbert's  self  is  whom  I  quote), 
Were  the  warder  of  this  Tower 
But  a  bard  of  strength  and  power, 
Not  a  paper  pote — 
This  would  be  a  lasting  line 
Telling  you  you  are  divine. 


"Sadly  lacking  in  our  land," 
(Quoting  as  I  start  to  sing) 
Are  the  maidens  I  can  stand 
Staring  at  and  hearing — and 
Wholly  everything. 
Falter,  feet!  and  metre  halt! 
When  ye  seek  to  sing  Miss  Alt. 


"This  the  close  of  every  song" — 

This  the  finishing  of  mine: 
Every  lyric,  short  or  long, 
Always  tries  to  tap  the  gong 
In  the  final  line. 
Wherefore  I  confess  to  be 
Nutty  over  Natalie. 


126 


The  Italics  Are  Richard  Gifford's 

TfERSE  sweetens  toil,  however  rude  the  sound; 
Y        She  feels  no  hiting  pang  the  while  she  sings; 
Nor,  as  she  turns  the  giddy  wheel  around, 
Revolves  the  sad  vicissitudes  of  things. 


No  pang  to  me  my  minnesinging  brings; 

I  pen  my  poems  by  the  very  pound. 
(They  say,  whene'er  one  strikes  the  lyric  strings, 

Verse  sweetens  toil,  however  rude  the  sound.) 


My  reckless  muse,  ungirdled  and  uncrowned, 
Sings  on,  sings  on  of  cabbages  and  kings; 

Skyward  she  soars,  or  digs  below  the  ground — 
She  feels  no  hiting  pang  the  while  she  sings. 


Coherence  to  the  well-known  winds  she  flings; 

She  cares  not  if  the  clock  of  Time  be  wound, 
Nor  recks  she,  as  she  plays,  if  wealth  have  wings, 

Nor  as  she  turns  the  giddy  wheel  around. 


She  muses  on  the  souls  confined  and  bound; 

On  barren  winters  and  on  sapful  springs; 
And  as  she  stands  upon  her  airy  mound, 

Revolves  the  sad  vicissitudes  of  things. 
127 


Weights  and  Measures 

1  like  a  poem  when  it  sort  of  swings, 
And  floats  and  sinks — at  times  you  think  it's 

drowned — 

And  lives,  and  dies,  and  falls  away,  and  clings. 
But,  in  a  long  career,  I've  never  found 
sweetens  toil. 


128 


To  the  Railroad  Men 

BROTHERHOOD  of  Engineers, 

O  Brotherhood  of  Train-  and  Firemen, 
Gaze  on  the  suppliant  salty  tears 
Wept  by  this  lowliest  of  the  lyremen. 


O  mighty  railroad  presidents, 
Debating  how  to  help  the  nation 

By  saving  corporate  expense — 
Harken  to  mine  interrogation : 


What  is  there  in  the  common  law, 
The  statutes  of  exchange  and  barter, 

From  Portland  to  Communipaw, 
What  is  there  in  the  railroads'  charter- 


What  is  there— something,  I  am  sure; 

What  is  there — this  my  query  weighty — 
That  makes  you  keep  the  temperature 

Of  so-called  sleeping  cars  at  80? 


129 


To  Myrtilla  of  New  York 

THE  Rockies,  I  own,  are  a  beautiful  sight; 
The  canyons  are  glories  to  see; 
I  found  in  the  spruce  undiluted  delight, 

And  the  pine  is  a  capable  tree; 
I  throbbed  when  I  gazed  at  the  snow-covered 

peaks, 

And  worshipped  the  view  from  the  crest; 
I  revelled  in  Nature  a  couple  of  weeks, 
But  there's  nothing  like  you  in  the  West, 

My  dear, 
There's  nothing  like  you  in  the  West. 


The  trout  are  an  agile  and  esculent  fish. 

And  swift  are  the  streams  where  they  run; 
No  lovelier  sight  could  a  citizen  wish 

Than  Long's  at  the  rise  of  the  sun. 
Oh,  myriad  the  wonders  that  gave  me  a  thrill, 

And  frequently  I  was  impressed — 
But  nevertheless  it  is  true,  Myrtil, 

There's  nothing  like  you  in  the  West — 
That's  right— 

There's  nothing  like  you  in  the  West. 


130 


Roundel 

SPRING,  again  I'm  due  to 
Try  some  carolling 
Trill  a  note  or  two  to 
Spring. 


Briefly,  it's  my  cue  to 

Celebrate  and  sing 

Her  I  may  be  true  to. 


Take  these  flowers  I  strew  to 
Mean  most  anything.     .    . 
I  have  nothing  new  to 
Spring. 


Lines  to  a  Beautiful  and  Bus- 
riding  Lady 

OTHOU  who  wert  seated  ahead  of 
This  bard  on  an  Avenue  bus, 
Thy  beauty  is  such  as  I've  read  of, 

O'er  which  I  could  make  quite  a  fuss. 
Thou  travelledst  yesterday  morning, 
I  deemed  thee  considerable  queen; 
A  veil,  and  a  black  one,  adorning 
Thy  beautiful  bean. 


Though  dreadful  was  I  to  distress  thee, 

So  meek,  inarticulate,  shy 
This  bard  that  I  feared  to  address  thee, 

To  risk  an  indignant  reply. 
And  yet,  as  I  sat  in  repentance 

And  felt  on  my  features  thy  veil, 
I  struggled  to  frame  thee  a  sentence, 
And  struggled  to  fail. 


But  here  in  the  calm  and  the  quiet, 

When  all  is  inspiringly  still, 
I  rather  imagine  I'll  try  it.    ... 

I  shall.    I'll  go  further.    ...    I  will. 

0  lady  accoutred  and  geared  with 
That  veil,  for  thy  pardon  thy  sue: 

1  feared  that  my  face  interfered  with 

Thy  veil  as  it  blew. 


"Ladies,  Whose  Bright  Eyes" 

A  DIES,    whose    bright   eyes   illuminate    the 

city, 

Blinding  us  who  fare  along  the  city  streets, 
May  I  voice  a  plea,  briefly,  in  a  ditty 
Fashioned  in  a  way  unknown  to  Keats? 


When  the  light  from  you  scintillates  and  glimmers, 
"Ladies,  whose  bright  eyes"  are  either  blue  or 

brown, 
Don't  you  sort  of  think  you  ought  to  use  your 

dimmers 
While  you're  in  the  limits  of  the  town? 


133 


Lines  from  a  Plutocratic  Poetaster 
to  a  Ditch-digger 

SULLEN,  grimy,  labouring  person, 
As  I  passed  you  in  my  car, 
I  could  sense  your  muffled  curse  on 

It  and  me  and  my  cigar; 
And  though  mute  your  malediction, 

I  could  feel  it  on  my  head, 
As  in  countless  works  of  fiction 
I  have  read. 


Envy  of  mine  obvious  leisure 
Seemed  to  green  your  glittering  eye; 

Hate  for  mine  apparent  pleasure 
Filled  you  as  I  motored  by. 

You  who  had  to  dig  for  three,  four 
Hours  in  that  unpleasant  ditch, 

Loathed,  despised,  and  hated  me  for 
Being  rich. 


And  you  cursed  me  into  Hades 
As  you  envied  me  that  ride 

With  the  loveliest  of  ladies 
Sitting  at  my  dexter  side; 

And  your  wish,  or  your  idea, 
Was  to  hurl  us  off  some  cliff. 

I  could  see  that  you  thought  me  a 
Lucky  stiff. 

134 


Lines  to  a  Ditch-digger 

If  you  came  to  the  decision, 
As  my  car  you  mutely  cussed, 

That  allotment  and  division 
Are  indecently  unjust — 

Labouring  man,  however  came  you 
Thus  to  think  the  world  awry, 

I  should  be  the  last  to  blame  you  .  . 
So  do  I. 


135 


Villanelle,  with  Stevenson's 
Assistance 

THE  world  is  so  full  of  a  number  of  things 
Like  music  and  pictures  and  statues  and 
plays, 
I'm  sure  we  should  all  be  as  happy  as  kings. 

We've  winters  and  summers  and  autumns  and 

springs, 

We've    Aprils    and    Augusts,    Octobers    and 

Mays — 
The  world  is  so  full  of  a  number  of  things. 

Though  minor  the  key  of  my  lyrical  strings, 

I  change  it  to  major  when  paeaning  praise: 
I'm  sure  we  should  all  be  as  happy  as  kings. 

Each  morning  a  myriad  wonderments  brings, 

Each  evening  a  myriad  marvels  conveys, 
The  world  is  so  full  of  a  number  of  things. 

With  pansies  and  roses  and  pendants  and  rings, 
With  purples  and  yellows  and  scarlets  and 

grays, 
I'm  sure  we  should  all  be  as  happy  as  kings. 

So  pardon  a  bard  if  he  carelessly  sings 
•    A  solo  indorsing  these  Beautiful  Days — 
The  world  is  so  full  of  a  number  of  things, 
I'm  sure  we  should  all  be  as  happy  as  kings. 


With  a  Copy  of  Calverley 

HEN,  lady,  you  applaud  my  rhymes 

Appearing  in  the  public  prints, 
(As  you  have  done  a  dozen  times), 
I  wince. 


W 


A  bead  (or  two)  bepearls  my  brow; 

I  modestly  say  "Pooh!"  or  "Tush!" 
I  'd  blush,  I  think,  if  I  knew  how 
To  blush. 

Once,  when  your  praise  was  too  absurd, 

I  spoke  of  Calverley.    With  vim 
And  scorn  you  said :    "  I  never  heard 
Of  him." 

Tottered  my  reason,  shook  my  nerve, 

I  stifled  an  uprising  sob. 
"Has  she,"  I  wondered,  "heard  of  Irv- 
in  Cobb?" 

Take,  lady,  then,  this  blithesome  book — 

My  friend,  philosopher,  and  guide — 
And  don't,  I  pray,  forget  to  look 
Inside. 

How  fair  the  rhymes!    The  verse  how  fresh! 

Like  "one  clear  harp  in  divers  tones." 
Read  "Flight,"  " Forever,"— oh,  read  "Prec 
ious  Stones"! 


Weights  and  Measures 

Here,  all  this  treasured  tome  throughout, 

Shall  you  find  undiluted  joy. 
You,  in  your  classic  phrase,  will  shout 
"Oh,  boy!" 


Yet  pricks  the  thorn  upon  the  rose; 

And  lurks  the  wormwood  in  the  cup: 
CalverJey,    .    .    .    Lady,  how  he  shows 
Me  up! 


Ballade  of  Schopenhauer's 
Philosophy 

WISHFUL  to  add  to  my  mental  power, 
Avid  of  knowledge  and  wisdom,  1 
Pondered  the  Essays  of  Schopenhauer, 
Taking  his  terrible  hills  on  high. 
Worried  I  was,  and  a  trifle  shy, 
Fearful  I'd  find  him  a  bit  opaque! 

Thus  does  he  say,  with  a  soul-sick  sigh: 
"The  best  you  get  is  an  even  break." 


Life,  he  says,  is  awry  and  sour; 

Life,  he  adds,  is  sour  and  awry; 
Love,  he  says,  is  a  withered  flower; 

Love,  he  adds,  is  a  dragon-fly; 

Love,  he  swears,  is  the  Major  Lie; 
Life,  he  vows,  is  the  Great  Mistake; 

No  one  can  beat  it,  and  few  can  tie. 
The  best  you  get  is  an  even  break. 


Women,  he  says,  are  clouds  that  lower; 

Women  dissemble  and  falsify. 
(Those  are  things  that  The  Conning  Tower 

Cannot  asseverate  or  deny.) 

Futile  to  struggle,  and  strain,  and  try; 
Pleasure  is  freedom  from  pain  and  ache; 

The  greatest  thing  you  can  do  is  die— * 
The  best  you  get  is  an  even  break. 
139 


Weights  and  Measures 

L'ENVOI 

Gosh!  I  feel  like  a  real  good  cry! 

Life,  he  says,  is  a  cheat,  a  fake. 
Well,  I  agree  with  the  grouchy  guy — 

The  best  you  get  is  an  even  break. 


140 


THE  COUNTRY  LIFE  PRESS 
GARDEN  CITY,  N.  Y. 


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